IN  THE  HOUS2 
OF  HER  FRIENDS 


V 


Acres  v 
140 


IN  THE   HOUSE  OF 
HER   FRIENDS 


IN  THE  HOUSE 

OF 

HER  FRIENDS 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  GRIER  COOKE 

INCORPORATED 

MCMVI 


Copyright,   igo6,  by 
ROBERT   GRIER   COOKE,  INC. 


To  Katherine 

The  form  and  matter  of  this  book  is  at  once 
sacrificed  and  dedicated 


IN  THE   HOUSE  OF 
HER   FRIENDS 


IN  THE  HOUSE   OF    HER    FRIENDS 


SYLVIA  came  in  from  the  garden  and  flung  open 
all  the  parlor  windows  to  let  in  the  spring.  The 
memory  of  the  winter  was  so  recent  that  she  felt 
something  of  license,  almost  defiance  in  the  act;  but 
nothing  resulted  from  it  except  the  mildest  zephyrs 
smelling  of  young  green  things  growing  in  the  woods, 
and  the  acrid  smoke  of  dead  grass  burning  on  the  col- 
lege campus. 

She  took  her  old  accustomed  place  in  one  of  the 
broad  window-seats  and  looked  out.  Everything  about 
her  seemed  freed  from  fetters  and  rejoicing  in  a  new 
liberty.  Some  collegians  were  playing  ball  on  the 
Athletic  Field,  others  were  loitering  on  the  chapel  steps 
or  sprawling  in  heaps  on  the  brown  grass  under  the 
elm  trees  of  the  Promenade.  Some  children  passed  the 
window  with  their  hands  full  of  wild-flowers  from 
the  college  woods.  Sylvia  had  seen  them  last,  wrapped 
like  little  red  mummies,  skating  up  and  down  an  ice- 
bound puddle  in  front  of  the  house,  but  now  they  were 
walking  lightly  in  fluttering  garments  in  a  sort  of  visi- 
ble celebration  of  the  spring.  She  stopped  them  and 
spoke  to  them  as  they  went  by,  in  renewal  of  the  easy, 

3 


4  IN   THE    HOUSE 

human  intercourse  which  had  lain  dormant  under  the 
long  frost  of  the  season  that  was  just  past. 

The  door  of  one  of  the  buildings  at  the  other  end 
of  the  campus  opened  and  shut  with  a  click  as  the  tall 
figure  of  the  professor  of  engineering  came  out  of  his 
recitation  room.  He  stood  a  moment  to  withdraw  his 
key  from  the  lock  and  then  came  slowly  across  the  grass, 
so  lately  freed  from  snow-drifts,  walking  with  the 
swing  of  a  cavalry  officer  and  taking  the  short  cut  to 
his  own  house,  which  brought  him,  in  the  course  of 
time,  past  Sylvia's  window. 

There  he  stopped  and  took  off  his  soft  felt  hat, 
lingering  to  talk  a  few  moments  in  the  flattering  sun- 
light of  the  spring  afternoon,  and  Sylvia,  smiling  down 
into  his  handsome  narrow  face,  and  noticing  the  flecks 
of  gray  in  his  dark  waves  of  hair,  and  the  clouded  look 
in  his  blue,  heavy-lidded  eyes,  knew  that  the  winter  had 
gone  hard  with  him  and  forbore  to  ask  after  his  wife. 

Sylvia  had  known  him  all  her  life ;  he  was,  in  fact, 
part  of  the  furniture  of  her  existence,  to  be  taken  for 
granted  without  criticism;  but  when  she  first  remem- 
bered him  he  had  no  wife.  He  had  lived  alone  in  the 
house  next  her  grandfather's  and  hardly  a  day  of  all 
her  little  girlhood  had  passed  without  the  sight  of  his 
tall,  soldierly  figure,  now  sitting  on  the  front  steps 
with  her  mother  in  the  long  summer  evenings,  while 
her  brother  Tom  and  she  ran  races  up  and  down  the 
shadows  of  the  elm  trees  on  the  green,  now  in  the  little 
walled  garden  in  the  rear,  where  his  long  arms  were 
especially  useful  to  reach  the  higher  branches  of  the 
cherry  tree  or  to  help  in  the  training  and  clipping  of 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  5 

the  climbing  plants  on  the  chapel  wall.  But  most  often 
during  the  winter  evenings  with  her  mother  and  grand- 
father in  the  old  Dean's  study,  where,  as  she  grew 
older,  she  had  been  vaguely  influenced,  vaguely  enlight- 
ened, by  the  kind  of  talk  that  went  on  about  her. 

Yet  there  had  been  another  side  to  her  memories 
of  Wilfred  Cochran,  a  something  wordless  and  shad- 
owy, so  dim  that  it  was  almost  like  a  dream.  It  seemed 
as  if  more  than  once  in  her  little  girlhood  there  had 
been  a  closed  carriage  rolling  late  at  night  into  the 
silent  college  inclosure,  and  she  must  have  seen,  or  the 
words  of  her  nurse  telling  it  to  some  one  the  next 
morning  had  affected  her  so  vividly  that  she  thought 
she  had  seen,  something  dark  and  helpless  lifted  out 
and  supported  up  the  steps  of  Professor  Cochran's 
house.  No  one  had  ever  told  her  what  it  meant. 
Nevertheless  she  had  long  retained  the  impression  then 
received  of  hidden  tragedy  and  disgrace,  all  the  more 
mysterious  because  so  ill  understood,  nearly  effaced  at 
last  for  lack  of  reinforcement,  until  the  time,  not  much 
more  than  two  years  ago  now,  when  Professor  Coch- 
ran had  disappeared  suddenly,  just  before  the  Easter 
holidays,  and  for  several  weeks  no  one,  not  even  the 
Dean,  had  known  where  he  was. 

Then,  only  from  the  deep  anxiety  and  preoccupa- 
tion at  home,  the  rage  of  conjecture  and  discussion 
which  seemed  to  be  going  on  everywhere  except  at 
home,  she  had  learned  all  she  was  able  to  understand  of 
Wilfred's  hidden  struggle  against  hereditary  tendency, 
his  bitter  failures,  his  long  abstinence,  his  last  defeat. 

He  came  back  in  the  course  of  time.    Sylvia,  as  the 


6  IN    THE    HOUSE 

Dean's  granddaughter,  did  not  hear  the  storm  of  cen- 
sure which  greeted  his  reinstatement  in  the  little  society 
of  which  he  was  retained  a  member,  but  she  could 
clearly  remember  how  surprised  and  excited  every  one 
was  to  hear  that  he  had  been  married  during  his  ab- 
sence. At  first  she  herself  had  been  a  little  offended, 
and  then  very  much  interested  in  picturing  to  herself 
what  this  new  Mrs.  Cochran  might  be  like,  who  had 
come  to  be  their  next-door  neighbor.  But  Mrs.  Coch- 
ran had  turned  out  to  be  a  very  strange,  undesirable 
sort  of  person,  who  kept  herself  hidden  away  and  seldom 
was  seen  by  any  one.  Her  husband,  too,  had  ceased  to 
be  found  among  his  old  friends.  He  never  came  any 
more  into  the  Dean's  walled  garden,  or  sat  with  them 
on  the  steps  in  the  twilight,  or  spent  long  pleasant 
evenings  talking  to  the  Dean  in  his  study.  Weeks 
passed  sometimes  and  Sylvia  did  not  see  him;  but  as 
she  had  formerly  accepted  his  presence  as  one  of  the 
necessary  details  of  her  life,  so  she  had  adapted  herself 
to  his  entire  withdrawal  with  a  dreamy,  youthful 
egotism  which  kept  her  in  a  half  imaginary  world  of 
her  own,  content  to  let  all  that  part  of  the  show  of  life 
that  did  not  vitally  concern  her  go  and  come  without 
question,  almost  without  notice. 

Yet  she  was  glad  to  see  Professor  Cochran  again 
as  he  stopped  under  her  window,  and  she  quickly  re- 
sumed the  little  familiar  manner  which  belonged  to  their 
former  relations  with  one  another,  when  she  had  known 
herself  to  be  a  favorite,  and  had  always  been  able  to 
make  him  laugh  by  telling  him  what  she  was  thinking 
about.  They  were  laughing  together  quite  like  old 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  7 

friends,  when  Sylvia,  as  she  looked  down  upon  him 
from  above,  saw  a  sudden  enlargement  and  intensity 
in  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  a  lifting  of  the  head,  a 
change  in  the  whole  man,  so  significant,  so  remarkable, 
that  she  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  ask  what 
he  was  looking  at.  Just  at  that  moment,  however,  she 
felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and,  turn- 
ing, saw  that  her  mother  had  come  into  the  room  so 
quietly  as  to  leave  her  unaware  of  her  presence  until 
she  perceived  her  close  beside  her  in  the  window. 

"  O  mamma,"  she  said,  turning  eagerly,  "  See, 
everything  can  be  open  again !  " 

"  Yes,  the  winter  is  over."  Mrs.  Lawrence's  voice 
sounded  very  low  and  grave  after  her  daughter's  sweet, 
high  treble.  "  The  winter  is  over."  She  said  it  again, 
smiling  down  at  Wilfred  Cochran,  as  a  sort  of  greet- 
ing, a  magical  repetition  of  what  all  the  creatures  in 
the  world  were  repeating  to  one  another  with  promise, 
with  encouragement. 

But  he,  seeing  her  again  standing  there  above  him, 
with  the  reflection  of  the  beauty  of  spring  upon  her 
face,  hearing  her  beloved  and  familiar  voice  as  she  spoke 
to  him — Wilfred  Cochran  could  only  feel  a  more  de- 
spairing sadness,  a  more  helpless  regret  that  for  him 
the  loosening  of  the  winter's  bonds  could  bring  no 
lightness,  could  mean  nothing,  nothing  but  the  added 
consciousness  of  galling  chains  which  already  held  him 
fast.  He  stood  silent,  gazing  up  at  her,  his  eyes  dim 
and  anguished  with  the  strain  of  the  one  thing  which 
was  not  denied  him.  Sylvia,  too,  was  looking  up  smil- 
ing into  her  mother's  face.  She  loved  its  clear  outline, 


8  IN   THE   HOUSE 

the  blue  eyes  which  looked  out  with  a  sort  of  poignant 
beauty  from  under  their  perfect  arches,  the  sweet  curves 
of  the  lips,  which  seemed  cold  till  she  smiled  as  she 
was  doing  now. 

Katherine  Lawrence  stood  very  quiet  under  the 
double  gaze  of  those  two  widely  dissevered  beings  who 
both  loved  her,  while  caring  nothing  for  each  other. 
But  after  her  first  smile  of  greeting,  during  all  the 
interchange  of  cold  little  words  which  must  be  spoken 
to  bridge  over  long  winter  months  of  silence  and  soli- 
tude, she  kept  her  own  eyes  with  almost  shrinking  care 
far  away  upon  the  faint  greens  and  browns  of  the 
spring  landscape. 

Sylvia  at  last,  half-involuntarily,  turned  to  follow 
that  wide  gaze  out  to  the  glimpses  of  distant  mountains 
under  the  arching  trees. 

All  at  once  she  began  to  flutter  and  preen  herself 
and  her  eyes  to  dance  with  new  gay  interest  as  she 
caught  sight  of  a  youth  in  knickerbockers  (it  was  be- 
fore the  days  of  "  safeties  ")  who  suddenly  swept  past 
the  corner  and  began  to  flash  in  and  out  among  the 
tree  trunks  of  the  Promenade.  Now  he  disappeared 
behind  the  gray  buildings  to  come  into  view  again 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  where  the  library  stood,  square 
and  ungraceful,  with  its  ugly  squat  tower;  and 
now  he  turned  with  a  birdlike  sweep  into  the  straight 
white  path  which  must  soon  lead  him  by  their  win- 
dow. 

"  Mamma,  here  is  Stephen,"  she  whispered  with' 
her  hand  on  her  mother's  arm,  just  in  time  before  he 
glided  up  at  their  very  side,  catching  at  the  window- 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  9 

sill  to  support  and  steady  himself  as  he  brought  his 
machine  to  a  stand-still. 

"  Don't  let  me  drive  you  away,  Professor,"  he 
shouted  in  his  cheerful  young  voice,  as  Wilfred  Coch- 
ran  stepped  aside  to  keep  from  being  run  over. 

"  Thank  you,  I  wouldn't,  if  I  did  not  happen  to  be 
going  already,"  the  other  responded  sharply,  his  face 
growing  scornful  in  the  impatient  intolerance  which 
had  always  been  his  for  "  braggart  youth,"  as  he  was 
wont  to  call  it,  and  which  he  veiled  too  slightly  ever  to 
be  very  popular  with  his  students. 

But  the  new-comer,  a  big,  handsome  fellow,  with  a 
square  chin  cleft  in  the  middle,  and  seal-brown,  smil- 
ing eyes,  which  he  used  like  a  woman,  was  too  confi- 
dent of  himself  and  the  kind  intentions  of  every  one 
round  him  to  be  offended  by  the  other's  ungraciousness. 

"  I  saw  the  window  open."  His  voice,  too,  was 
touched  with  the  triumph  of  spring. 

"  Yes,  everything  can  be  open  again;  isn't  it  nice?  " 
echoed  Sylvia. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Wilfred  abruptly.  The  boy  an'd 
girl,  openly  absorbed  in  one  another,  hardly  heard  him, 
hardly  saw  him  go.  But  Katherine's  eyes  came  back 
to  his  for  a  moment  just  as  he  turned  away.  For  one 
grave  moment  their  gaze  met. 

[Then  he  went  on  down  the  path  past  the  chapel 
to  his  own  house. 


II 


THE  evening  closed  chill  after  the  withdrawal  of 
the  setting  sun.  The  pale  April  moon  rose  like 
a  ghost  among  the  leafless  trees,  higher  and  higher 
above  the  cold  white  mist  which  had  rolled  up  the 
valley  when  the  sun  set,  silvering  the  roofs  and  filling 
the  dark  quadrangles  of  Littel  College,  lending  a  sort 
of  classic  dignity  to  the  barren  lengths  of  gray  stucco 
wall  which  began  to  glimmer  at  her  bidding  into  vague 
colonnades  and  stately  lines  of  dim  white  arches.  But 
there  was  a  certain  witchlike  quality  to  her  radiance 
which  seemed  in  the  end  to  chill  the  magic  of  the  spring 
which  had  been  working  so  beneficently  all  day  in  the 
sunlight,  till  it  took  forms  no  longer  wholely  kind,  no 
longer  harmless  and  beautiful.  For,  as  the  evening 
advanced,  on  the  pale  whiteness  of  the  Promenade  there 
came  by  ones  and  twos,  from  among  the  buildings,  sev- 
eral dark,  muffled,  bat-like  creatures,  who  fluttered  for 
a  little  while  up  and  down  among  the  trees,  now  gath- 
ering in  a  little  group  at  the  end  of  the  walk — com- 
monly called  the  Dean's  corner — now  separating  again, 
and  finally  vanishing  as  suddenly  and  mysteriously  as 
they  had  come.  It  was  nothing  more  at  first  than  Mrs. 
Brauer,  the  wife  of  the  professor  of  physics,  and  her 
great  crony,  Miss  Mix,  creeping  along  together  on 

10 


IN    THE    HOUSE   OF    HER    FRIENDS     n 

their  way  to  the  South  Gate,  where  lay  Miss  Mix's 
road  home  into  the  town.  But  the  moonlight  lent  some- 
thing fantastical,  almost  malicious,  to  the  two  figures 
as  they  went  along,  now  swaying  close  together  in  the 
deeper  interests  of  their  conversation,  now  drifting  far 
apart  with  the  shock  of  recoil. 

Mrs.  Brauer,  her  narrow  shoulders  enveloped  and 
her  thin  arms  folded  tight  together  over  a  large  blanket 
shawl,  carried  her  little  shrunken  body  thrown  well 
back  upon  her  hips  and  moved  with  the  swinging  de- 
liberate gait  of  a  very  large  woman.  Miss  Mix  went 
hurrying  by  her  side  on  her  short,  fat  legs,  bouncing 
away  like  a  rubber  ball  whenever  her  somewhat  un- 
steady steps  brought  her  in  collision  with  her  com- 
panion. Their  tongues  wagged  pleasantly  in  the  mag- 
ical moonlight ;  the  promise  of  the  spring  that  had  been 
in  the  air  all  day  had  got  in  their  veins  too.  It  stirred 
in  their  impoverished  imaginations ;  it  gave  new  activ- 
ity to  their  small  intelligences.  In  the  weird  moonlight 
the  old  tales  and  surmises  about  the  under  history  of 
Littel  College,  the  scandals  of  the  past  and  the  mys- 
teries of  the  present,  assumed  a  new  enchantment,  made 
new  demands  to  be  stirred  up,  repeated,  rehabilitated. 

And  so,  like  well-intentioned  witches  (Miss  Mix, 
especially,  being  one  of  the  kindest  creatures  in  the 
world)  they  wove  their  futile  spells  out  of  the  web 
of  other  lives,  and  brewed  their  pot  of  boiling  gossip 
over  their  crackling  fire  of  talk.  The  red  light  which 
shone  out  through  unshuttered  windows  at  the  Dean's 
corner  added  new  fuel  to  the  blaze. 

"  The  Lawrences  seem  to  be  having  company,"  re- 


12  IN   THE   HOUSE 

marked  Mrs.  Brauer  dryly  as  they  came  nearer  and 
nearer. 

"  Oh,  no  one  but  Stephen  Dullas,"  said  Miss  Mix 
officiously.  "  I  saw  him  going  up  the  street  just  about 
tea  time;  and  later,  as  I  passed  the  Lawrences'  on  my 
way  to  Patty  Cochran's,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
with  Sylvia  near  the  window." 

"  He  is  there  everlastingly,  isn't  he  ? "  said  the 
other.  "  I'll  be  bound  Mrs.  Lawrence  is  glad  to  see  it. 
He  would  be  a  fine  match  for  Sylvia.  She  has  as  good 
an  eye  for  the  main  chance  as  other  people,  for  all  she 
gives  herself  such  superior  airs." 

"  She  was  always  like  that,  even  as  a  chit  of  a  girl 
when  Tom  first  brought  her  here  to  be  head  of  the 
Dean's  household  in  place  of  the  old  lady.  Dear  old 
Mrs.  Lawrence!  She  was  gone  before  ever  you  came 
here,  Mrs.  Brauer.  It  was  a  very  different  house  in 
those  days.  No  such  stiff,  formal  doings  as  there  are 
now.  This  having  to  ring  at  the  bell  and  wait  for  the 
servant-girl  to  open  the  door  every  time  you  drop  in 
on  the  way  by.  Open  house  and  open  heart,  I  say; 
and  you  had  only  to  look  at  the  old  lady  to  believe  it. 
The  Dean  has  never  been  the  same  man  since  she  was 
taken.  But  I  was  always  thankful  she  went  before 
Tom  did.  You  never  knew  Tom  Lawrence,  Mrs. 
Brauer.  He  was  drowned  trying  to  save  the  railroad 
bridge  when  it  was  carried  away  by  the  high  water  in 
'71,  a  year  before  your  husband  was  called  here.  The 
merriest,  warmest-hearted  fellow  in  the  world,  always 
ready  for  a  laugh  and  a  joke,  but  I  never  could  get  on 
with  his  wife,  though  I  tried  hard  enough,  goodness 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  13 

knows,  if  only  for  Tom's  sake.  So  anxious  he  was 
for  his  old  friends  to  make  much  of  her.  But  she  was 
always  stiff  and  offish,  just  as  she  is  now,  and  as  cold 
as  a  stone." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  he  died  when  he  did," 
Mrs.  Brauer  ventured  tentatively,  but  Miss  Mix  did 
not  perceive  the  underlying  malice  of  the  suggestion. 

"  I  don't  know.  They  say  all  is  for  the  best,  but 
it  is  hard  to  believe  that  of  everything  that  happens 
to  us.  Everybody  loved  him.  I  declare  there  wasn't 
a  dry  eye  in  the  town  on  the  day  of  his  funeral.  Every- 
body was  pitying  her,  left  a  widow  at  twenty-two  witK 
two  little  fatherless  babies.  We  all  thought  she  never 
would  have  lifted  her  head  again.  Well,  I  suppose  she 
considered  it  her  duty  to  bear  up  for  the  sake  of  her 
children,  but  I  remember  how  it  struck  me  the  first 
time  I  saw  her  in  her  widow's  weeds.  She  was  in  the 
Dean's  garden.  I  don't  suppose  she  expected  any  one 
to  come  in  upon  her,  but  I  thought  afterward  how 
strange  it  was  that  she  should  be  at  work  among  her 
flowers  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Before  I 
knew  what  I  was  about,  the  tears  were  streaming  down 
my  cheeks,  and  I  was  sobbing  like  a  child,  for  I  loved 
Tom  Lawrence  like  a  brother.  And  she  standing  there, 
answering  as  calmly  as  if  she  were  a  stick  or  a  stone! 
I  said  then  and  I  say  now,  I  won't  deny  she  does  her 
duty  as  she  sees  it,  I  won't  say  she  hasn't  been  a  good 
mother  to  Tom's  children,  but  you  never  can  convince 
me  that  any  one  has  a  warm  heart  who  never  shows  it." 

The  other  responded  with  an  ill-concealed  fleer. 
"  I  know  it  is  as  much  as  one's  soul  is  worth  in  this 


14  IN    THE    HOUSE 

college  to  say  the  least  thing  in  blame  of  Mrs.  Law- 
rence, but  I  must  confess  I  can't  understand  how  she 
suits  it  with  her  conscience  to  neglect  Patty  Cochran 
as  she  does.  Coming  a  stranger  as  she  did  among  us, 
and  such  a  sick  woman  as  she  has  been  all  this  year. 
It  is  a  lonely  life  at  best,  but  it  would  have  been  far 
worse  for  Patty  if  she  had  had  to  depend  on  Mrs. 
Lawrence  for  neighborly  kindness." 

Miss  Mix  replied  with  some  humor :  "  I  am  not  so 
sure  that  was  entirely  her  fault.  I  don't  believe  Patty 
ever  made  her  very  welcome.  You  see  from  the  very 
first  Mrs.  Lawrence  was  one  of  the  people  she  couldn't 
abide." 

"  And  no  wonder !  Do  you  remember  the  first 
Sunday  he  brought  her  to  church,  and  took  us  all  by 
surprise,  he  had  been  so  sly  and  secret  about  it  ?  Even 
the  Dean  was  just  as  much  surprised  as  any  one  else. 
That  I  know  from  what  he  let  fall  afterward  to  Brauer. 
And  for  all  she  carried  it  off  with  a  high  hand,  it 
must  have  been  a  fine  come-down  to  Mrs.  Lawrence. 
You  know  there  never  was  a  day  that  he  wasn't  there 
about  the  house,  '  like  a  tame  cat,'  Brauer  used  to  say. 
And  no  reason  why  not,  if  he  liked  it.  But  the  next 
minute,  without  any  warning,  to  see  him  walking  up 
the  church  steps  with  his  wife  on  his  arm!  " 

"  Yes,  poor  Patty !  How  daunted  she  looked  with 
all  the  new  faces.  I  can  see  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday." 

"  And  Mrs.  Lawrence  came  out  afterward  with 
the  boy  and  the  girl,  one  on  each  side  of  her,  and  went 
past  Cochran  and  his  wife  as  they  stood  in  the  porch 
as  if  she  didn't  see  them.  But  she  came  back  when  she 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  15 

heard  what  every  one  was  saying.  '  Aren't  you  going 
to  present  me  to  your  wife,  Wilfred?  '  she  said  in  that 
high  and  lofty  tone  of  hers,  sweet  enough  to  kill  you, 
calling  him  by  his  Christian  name,  too,  right  before 
Patty's  face.  And  as  if  that  was  not  enough  to  set 
any  woman  against  her,  what  must  she  say  next  to 
Patty  herself,  but  '  I  hope  your  husband  has  told  you 
what  a  good  friend  of  his  I  am,'  or  something  of  that 
sort.  Poor  Patty  stood  there  not  knowing  what  to 
answer.  I  could  have  told  my  lady  that  wasn't  the 
wisest  thing  to  say  to  a  young  bride.  Patty  Cochran 
couldn't  endure  her  from  that  moment,  and  I'm  sure 
I  don't  wonder." 

"  Patty  has  no  call  to  complain,"  said  Miss  Mix 
comfortably.  "  She  is  the  one  that  got  him.  And  for 
my  part  I  always  had  a  sneaking  suspicion  that  Kitty 
Lawrence  cared  more  for  Cochran  than  she  ever  let  on." 

Mrs.  Brauer  replied  sharply,  "  She  lost  him  then, 
while  she  was  making  up  her  mind." 

"  And  it's  women  like  Patty  who  are  the  ones  to 
stand  by  a  man  when  he  is  down  in  the  world,  as  Coch- 
ran is  now." 

Mrs.  Brauer  assented,  carried  away  straightway 
into  this  new  theme.  "  It  is  getting  worse  and  worse, 
Brauer  tells  me,  in  the  college.  Half  the  time  he  does 
not  know  what  he  is  doing  in  his  recitation-room,  and 
at  the  last  faculty  meeting  he  was  so  evidently  under 
the  influence  of  liquor  that  it  was  a  shame  the  Dean  did 
not  notice  it." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  Dean's  corner 
again  and  were  hesitating  whether  to  turn  back  or  to 


16      IN   THE   HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS 

continue  their  way  on  to  their  destination,  when  a  third 
shape  came  out  into  the  moonlight  of  the  Promenade, 
emerging  so  suddenly  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
big  dormitory  as  to  take  the  others  quite  by  surprise, 
till  Miss  Mix  recognized  the  tall,  thin  figure  in  the 
fluttering  black  cloak. 

"Is  that  you,  Nannie  Chandler?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Brauer  ?  How  are  you, 
Harriet  ?  "  said  the  new-comer  in  a  pleasant,  hurried 
voice.  "  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  how  Mrs.  Cochran 
was  this  evening.  I  hear  she  has  been  ill  again,  poor 
woman !  Do  you  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

Miss  Mix  wished  no  better  than  to  produce  all  her 
store  of  well-furnished  knowledge  on  the  subject.  It 
was  some  time  before  the  little  cluster  under  the  elm 
tree  separated  again  into  its  component  parts.  The 
white  moonlight  gave  meantime  a  kind  of  grotesque 
significance,  a  fluttering  uncertainty,  to  their  tenta- 
tives  toward  departure,  as  if  some  unseen  and  hidden 
force  held  them  mysteriously  together.  Till  the  latest 
comer  disengaged  herself  with  a  swift,  almost  fugitive 
movement  which  carried  her  quite  across  the  strip  of 
road  between  the  elm  tree  and  the  Dean's  front  door. 
She  did  not  stop,  indeed,  till  she  had  reached  the  last  of 
the  two  low  steps  before  the  entrance,  looking  back  then 
only  to  wave  good-by  to  her  late  companions ;  but  they 
had  already  disappeared  into  the  deep  encroaching 
shadow  of  the  buildings  beyond. 

The  door  swung  open  lightly  in  her  hand  and  she 
entered  with  no  lack  of  confidence,  evidently,  in  the  wel- 
come that  awaited  her  beyond. 


Ill 


THE  occupants  of  the  spacious  old  drawing-room 
were  all  so  absorbed  in  their  own  affairs  that 
Mrs.  Chandler  stood  for  several  minutes  on  the  thresh- 
old before  any  one  perceived  her.  Sylvia  sat  in  one 
corner  of  the  old-fashioned  sofa  with  its  high  back 
and  broad,  cushioned  arm,  Stephen  quite  at  the  other 
end,  a  gay  array  of  cards  lying  between  them  in 
the  complicated  arrangement  of  the  game  they  were 
playing. 

She  was  quivering  and  sparkling  with  the  joy  of 
contest,  the  color  deep  in  her  cheeks  like  a  wild  rose, 
and  her  eyes  full  of  the  liquid  light  of  childhood,  de- 
lighted, evidently,  because  Stephen  was  getting  the 
worst  of  it.  At  the  other  end  of  the  room  a  great, 
long  legged  boy  sprawled  upon  the  rug  preparing  his 
Greek  lesson  for  the  next  day.  In  the  circle  of  light 
under  the  lamp  stood  a  little  work-table,  and  a  chair 
from  which  some  one  had  evidently  just  risen,  leaving 
a  mass  of  soft  knitting  behind.  But  other  occupancy 
of  the  room  there  was  none,  though  the  sound  of  voices 
came  through  the  open  folding  doors  beyond — a  man's 
voice  chiefly,  somewhat  husky  from  old  age,  but  still 
beautiful  in  many  of  its  notes. 

Mrs.  Chandler  spoke  herself  at  last. 
17 


i8  IN   THE   HOUSE 

"  How  do  you  do,  Sylvia  ?  Where  is  your 
mother?" 

The  two  youths  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  Sylvia 
cried :  "  Oh  Mrs.  Chandler,  I  can't  get  up !  If  I  do 
I  shall  spill  my  cards.  She  is  in  the  other  room  with 
grandfather.  Mamma ! "  She  raised  her  voice  and 
called  aloud  with  scant  ceremony. 

The  mistress  of  this  pleasant,  peaceful  interior  ap- 
peared at  her  daughter's  call  in  the  opening  between 
the  folding  doors,  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  out 
questioning,  almost  startled,  as  if  she  had  been  not 
unconscious  of  the  venemous  foam  of  talk  beating  upon 
her  from  outside,  as  if  she  were  on  guard  against  its 
possible  invasion  of  her  remote  tranquillity.  But  she 
put  away  her  little  hostile  manner  and  came  forward 
with  a  cordial  smile  when  she  recognized  Mrs.  Chand- 
ler. 

"  O  Nannie,  is  it  you  ?  I  might  have  known  you 
would  have  come  drifting  in  with  the  first  days  of 
spring,  like  a  bird  from  the  South." 

Mrs.  Chandler,  with  her  extreme  thinness,  her  long, 
slender,  aquiline  nose,  and  wide-open  eyes,  set  in  dark, 
arched  hollows,  and  her  fluttering  black  cloak,  did  not 
look  unlike  a  bird  as  she  advanced  farther  into  the 
room  at  the  other's  bidding,  with  a  certain  hesitation, 
however,  as  if  she  had  come  only  to  perch  a  moment 
and  then  fly  on. 

"  It  is  too  late !  I  really  can't  stay ;  I  was  coming 
by  and  saw  that  your  curtains  had  not  been  drawn — 
oh,  you  haven't  put  them  up  again  after  the  spring 
cleaning.  But  I  must  run  on." 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  19 

"  Oh,  no.  Stay  a  little  while,"  said  Katherine,  tak- 
ing up  her  knitting  and  sitting  down  in  the  circle  of 
lamplight  again.  "  It  isn't  late." 

In  this  little  place  of  her  very  own,  with  her  chil- 
dren, and  the  youth  who,  loving  her  daughter,  enclosed 
her  in  the  same  circle  of  affectionate  sentiment  and 
admiration,  with  her  familiar  friend,  into  whose  inti- 
macy she  had  come  through  long  years  while  they  had 
sat  together  watching  their  children  grow  up,  surely 
she  might  put  aside  the  grave,  almost  repellant  reserve 
which  is  often  the  only  protection  of  natures  too  sen- 
sitive, too  fastidiously  shrinking,  to  go  quite  unarmed 
among  their  fellow-men,  though  she  might  have  re- 
membered that  best  friends  often  partake  enough  of  the 
nature  of  enemies  to  serve  as  hybrid  links  to  conduct 
shocks  which  might  otherwise  have  missed  their  victim. 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  at  home  long  ago,"  hurriedly 
continued  Mrs.  Chandler,  "  but  I  have  been  standing 
under  the  trees  at  the  corner  talking  to  Harriet  Mix 
and  that  horrid  little  Mrs.  Brauer,  I  don't  know  how 
long.  They  were  telling  me " 

"  Have  those  two  begun  to  walk  up  and  down 
again?"  interrupted  Katherine  in  a  tone  between 
amusement  and  disgust. 

"  Yes.    Well,  they  were  saying " 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  begin  so  soon  about  what  they 
were  saying !  "  cried  the  other  almost  pathetically. 

"  Dear  me !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chandler,  "  you  are 
always  so  superior  to  a  little  harmless  gossip." 

"  It  is  only  an  instinct  against  taking  liberties  with 
other  people's  affairs  which  I  should  resent  in  my  own." 


20  IN    THE    HOUSE 

"  My  dear,  we  can't  keep  people  from  talking 
about  us." 

"  It  is  only  an  instinct.  Considerations  of  that 
kind  would  not  be  likely  to  affect  it." 

"  Besides,"  went  on  the  other,  too  full  of  the  story 
which  had  just  been  poured  into  her  ears  to  be  long 
diverted  from  the  pleasure  of  its  discussion.  "  Besides, 
I  don't  think  you  are  quite  fair  in  your  judgment  of 
those  two  women.  Mrs.  Brauer,  I  admit,  is  a  vene- 
mous  little  toad.  I  should  always  suspect  her  of  some 
mean  motive  if  I  found  her  putting  herself  out  for  any 
one.  But  Harriet  Mix  is  the  kindest-hearted,  most 
helpful  creature  in  the  world,  dear  old  Dr.  Mix's 
daughter,  and  her  mother  was  the  salt  of  the  earth. 
She  has  her  faults,  as  we  all  have.  I  know  she  is  a 
terrible  mischief-maker  and  busybody  when  the  occa- 
sion offers  itself,  but  where  can  you  find  a  person  more 
ready  to  spend  and  be  spent  than  Harriet  is  when 
any  one  is  in  trouble  ?  For  instance,  which  of  us,  Kitty, 
would  have  sat  up  for  two  nights,  as  she  has  this  last 
week,  with  that  poor  woman,  Mrs.  Cochran,  because 
she  was  alone  and  there  was  no  one  else  to  do  it? 
I  don't  know  about  you,  but  I  am  sure  I  haven't  been 
once  this  winter  even  to  ask  how  she  was." 

"  I  hardly  know  Mrs.  Cochran,"  said  Katherine 
coldly,  "  and  she  has  never  shown  any  signs  of  want- 
ing to  know  me  any  better.  Even  if  I  had  known  she 
was  ill,  which  I  did  not,  I  can't  think  of  any  way  I 
could  have  offered  my  services  to  her  that  she  would 
not  have  resented." 

The  other  woman  assented  instantly. 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  21 

"  I  know,  I  know ;  she  is  perfectly  impossible,  and 
it  is  ridiculous  to  pretend  anything  else.  Mrs.  Brauer, 
for  instance,  with  her  airs  of  championship  for  a  young, 
neglected  wife !  " 

"  You  are  so  funny,"  said  Katherine,  with  a  hur- 
ried change  of  subject,  "  with  your  extravagant  prej- 
udice against  that  poor  woman.  I  rather  like  the 
Brauers  myself.  They  used  to  come  here  a  good  deal 
at  one  time.  He  was  very  much  interested  in  my  port- 
folio of  French  photographs,  and  I  found  him  quite 
touching  in  his  belated  love  of  art  and  his  desire  to 
collect  a  library." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chandler,  giggling,  as 
if  suddenly  amused  by  some  thought  that  had  occurred 
to  her,  "  I  have  no  doubt  you  were  very  kind  to  them 
both,  but  with  that  sort  of  people  one  is  easily  mis- 
understood. In  fact  I  happen  to  know  that  your  man- 
ner to  her  husband  has  given  Mrs.  Brauer  a  good  deal 
of  uneasiness.  She  thought  it  too  familiar  to  a  mar- 
ried man.  Not  that  she  thought  you  meant  any- 
thing by  it  really,  or  that  she  minded  it  herself, 
she  assured  me,  but  she  feared  with  people  who 
didn't  know  you  well  it  would  lay  you  open  to  criti- 
cism." 

"  My  manner  to  Mr.  Brauer !  "  echoed  Katherine  in 
such  wide  amazement  that  they  both  began  to  laugh 
involuntarily.  But  long  before  the  other  had  ceased 
to  be  amused,  Katherine  drew  her  shoulders  together 
with  a  shrinking  gesture  as  if  the  whole  subject  had 
become  distasteful  to  her. 

"  How  impossible  it  is  to  be  prepared  for  what  they 


22  IN    THE   HOUSE 

will  think  of  you !  "  she  said  a  little  bitterly,  as  she  took 
up  her  knitting  again. 

"  But,  Kitty,  I  know  you  hate  to  talk  about  it," 
continued  Mrs.  Chandler,  drawing  her  chair  nearer  and 
lowering  her  voice.  The  fumes  of  the  pot  that  had 
been  boiling  so  hotly  out  in  the  moonlight  over  its  little 
fire  of  crackling  thorns  were  still  constraining  her, 
against  her  better  judgment,  in  spite  of  discourage- 
ment, to  return  to  the  college  scandal  that  she  knew 
must  be  peculiarly  unacceptable  to  any  member  of  the 
Dean's  household,  most  unfit  for  discussion  almost 
within  earshot  of  the  Dean  himself. 

"  I  am  not  speaking  merely  for  the  sake  of  retail- 
ing gossip.  But  don't  you  think  we  have  some  re- 
sponsibility in  this  matter  of  the  Cochrans.  If  all  re- 
ports are  true — I  am  not  only  taking  what  Harriet 
Mix  says — he  neglects  her  shamefully;  she  is  most 
unhappy.  I  suppose  she  deserves  it.  I  suppose  it  is 
no  more  than  she  might  have  expected." 

Katherine  was  silent.  The  other  continued,  with  a 
sudden  change  of  position. 

"  And  after  all  what  ever  is  going  on  there,  how- 
ever he  treats  her,  I  am  a  great  deal  sorrier  for  him 
than  for  her.  It  has  shut  him  entirely  away  from 
his  friends.  No  one  ever  sees  him  now  except  as  he 
goes  to  and  fro  to  his  recitation-room,  unless  it  is  you." 
She  turned  suddenly  upon  Katherine,  who  answered 
briefly,  "  Never,"  without  looking  up  from  her  knit- 
ting. 

"  All  these  reports  are  growing  against  him  from 
day  to  day.  No  one  exactly  accepts  them,  but  nobody 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  23 

denies  them.  It  seems  to  me  heartless  that  all  his  old 
friends  should  dismiss  it  all  as  you  do,  as  if  you  hadn't 
the  slightest  interest  in  the  matter." 

"  That  is  not  true,  I  have  an  interest,"  said  Kath- 
erine  faintly.  With  evident  effort,  after  a  moment  she 
resumed :  "  What  good  does  it  do  to  listen  to  the  vul- 
gar surmises  and  conjectures  of  people  like  Miss  Mix 
and  Mrs.  Brauer,  who,  however  well-intentioned,  must, 
from  the  very  bias  of  their  minds,  desecrate  everything 
they  touch  ?  I  know  nothing,  I  can  do  nothing.  What 
is  the  use  of  talking  about  it?  How  can  his  friends 
help  him  by  making  his  misfortunes  the  subject  of  end- 
less humiliating  discussion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  my  dear,"  the  other  began  in  tones  of 
some  impatience,  when  an  indignant  voice  at  the  door 
made  them  both  look  up. 

"  Mamma !  You  here !  I  have  been  all  the  way 
to  Miss  Mix's  to  look  for  you." 

It  was  Marjorie  Chandler,  a  very  pretty  brunette 
about  Sylvia's  age,  with  soft,  amorous  brown  eyes, 
strongly  curling  dark  hair,  and  round  red  lips  which 
curved  charmingly  over  brilliant  teeth.  Sylvia  sprang 
up  to  greet  her  friend. 

Mrs.  Chandler  rose  to  her  feet  in  a  sort  of  comical 
deprecation  of  her  daughter's  anger ;  the  Dean  himself, 
a  notable  figure,  more  than  six  feet  tall,  with  a  fine 
head,  and  a  shock  of  gray  hair  falling  about  his  ears, 
came  out  of  the  inner  room  at  the  sound  of  the  new 
arrival. 

Marjorie  was  a  great  favorite  of  his  and  he  turned 
at  once,  with  old-fashioned  gallantry,  to  defend  her 


24  IN    THE   HOUSE 

from  her  mother,  who,  quickly  recovering  from  the  dis- 
advantage of  her  own  discovery  in  an  apparent  lapse 
from  duty,  had  begun  to  upbraid  her. 

"  You  naughty  child !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
have  been  all  the  way  down  to  Miss  Mix's  by  yourself 
at  this  time  of  night?  " 

Marjorie  accorded  the  Dean  one  of  her  brilliant 
smiles,  but  a  veil  of  blankness  descended  over  her  soft 
brown  eyes  as  she  turned  them  on  her  mother. 

"  I  thought  I  should  meet  you  every  moment,"  she 
said  softly. 

"  Well,  come  along  now.  We  must  go  at  once. 
Your  father  will  be  waiting  to  shut  up  the  house,"  said 
Mrs.  Chandler,  drawing  her  long  black  cloak  around 
her.  "  Oh,  what  a  night !  "  she  cried  as  they  all  went 
to  the  door  with  her.  "  Why  not  walk  part  of  the 
way  back  with  us  ?  " 

"  Let  us  all  go !  "  cried  Sylvia.  "  Look  at  the 
moon;  it  is  as  big  as  the  dome  of  the  capital." 

"Are  you  mad,  young  people?"  said  the  Dean  in 
his  rolling  old  voice.  "  Don't  you  know  it  is  only 
April  and  there  is  rheumatism  in  the  air  lying  in  wait 
to  catch  the  unwary  ?  " 

"  Only  to  the  corner,  sir,"  said  his  daughter-in-law 
respectfully;  but  he  would  not  risk  the  night  damps 
and  went  back  to  his  study,  shuffling  a  little  in  his 
leathern  slippers,  and  quite  sure  they  were  all  sorry  to 
go  off  without  him. 

Marjorie  at  once  slipped  to  Sylvia's  side  and  put 
her  hand  clingingly  within  her  friend's  arm. 

"  O   Sylvia,"  she  whispered,   "  I  have  seen  him 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  25 

again!  He  was  still  downstairs  in  the  parlor  at  Miss 
Mix's  when  I  came  in  to  look  for  mamma,  and  he 
talked  to  me  for  quite  a  while." 

"  Did  he?  "  cried  Sylvia,  much  interested.  "  What 
did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you !  Nothing  really  much,  you 
know,  but  very  nice.  He  has  the  most  beautiful  eyes 
in  the  world.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  And  he  looked  at 
me  all  the  time  he  was  talking  in  the  most  peculiar 
way.  O  Sylvia !  "  She  squeezed  her  friend's  arm  and 
sighed  ecstatically. 

The  moon  was  still  filling  everything  with  its  misty 
light  and  gave  the  effect  of  an  incantation  to  the  warm 
young  voice  murmuring  in  Sylvia's  ear.  She  felt 
vaguely  confused  and  excited.  Something  was  going 
on  in  the  world  all  round  her,  in  the  very  earth  under 
her  feet.  Her  youth  demanded  that  she  should  be  a 
part  of  it,  else  what  good  was  there,  what  reason  for 
the  beauty  of  the  great  pale  moon  and  the  brown, 
fragrant  earth,  and  for  the  little  damp  breeze  blowing 
from  the  woods  and  smelling  of  wild-flowers.  Stephen 
walked  at  her  other  side,  but  she  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  considering  him  an  especially  illuminating  person. 
What  he  had  for  her  just  then  was  not  at  all  what  she 
wanted ;  it  was  too  obvious,  too  simple,  quite  unadapted 
to  the  faint  flutterings  and  stirrings  of  her  half- 
awakened  emotions,  which  had  been  aroused  into  vague 
self-consciousness  by  the  spring  moonlight.  She  con- 
tinued to  turn  him  her  shoulder  and  go  on  listening 
to  Marjorie. 

At  the  corner  they  parted,  Tom,  not  quite  by  his 


26     IN    THE    HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS 

own  intention,  accompanying  Mrs.  Chandler  and  her 
daughter  the  rest  of  their  way  home,  Stephen  to  his 
boarding-house,  and  Sylvia  and  her  mother  back  to  the 
Dean's.  Soon  everything  was  silent  and  solitary  again. 
The  moon  rode  now  in  the  very  heights  of  the  heavens, 
but  her  splendor  had  summoned  the  mists  from  all 
quarters  of  the  heavens.  With  long  black  veils  and 
streamers  they  began  to  pour  themselves  across  her 
face.  For  a  time  she  could  withstand  them  and  shone 
out  gallantly  again  and  again  in  all  her  earlier  glory, 
but  as  she  passed  the  zenith  of  her  power  they  more 
and  more  encompassed  her,  and  her  setting  was  buried 
in  dense  clouds. 


IV 


IT  was  the  regular  Thursday  meeting  of  the  faculty 
at  Littel  College  and  all  the  professors  were  as- 
sembled in  the  treasurer's  office,  a  large  corner  room  in 
the  science  building,  smelling  a  little  of  the  chemical 
solution  which  preserved  the  biological  specimens  next 
door. 

On  one  side  the  windows  looked  out  toward  the 
smooth  campus  of  the  main  quadrangle  with  its  fringe 
of  elms,  still  leafless,  while  all  the  other  trees  were 
beginning  to  put  on  their  spring  foliage.  In  the  other 
direction  the  view  was  less  extended,  being  shut  in  by 
the  back  side  of  the  chapel  and  the  Dean's  walled  gar- 
den, invisible  from  the  road,  but  showing  all  its  sun- 
drenched, bright  enclosure  to  any  one  who  chose  to 
look  across  from  the  higher  elevation  of  the  science 
building. 

Wilfred  Cochran  sat  leaning  back  in  a  chair  by  the 
window,  his  long  legs  stretched  out  in  front  of  him, 
his  head  bent  forward,  one  hand  supporting  his  elbow 
while  the  other  deeply  shaded  his  heavy  eyes,  ap- 
parently entirely  oblivious  of  what  was  going  on  about 
him.  If  his  colleagues  looked  at  him  at  all  it  was 
askance,  with  contemptuous  or  curious  glances,  as  if 
wondering  how  far  he  was  himself  this  afternoon.  Far 
too  much  himself  he  would  have  answered,  if  he  had 

27 


28  IN   THE   HOUSE 

spoken  the  thoughts  that  were  devouring  him ;  far  too 
conscious  of  himself  and  all  which  that  included. 

Within  the  rim  of  his  fingers  he  could  see  from 
where  he  was  sitting  a  brilliant  picture,  focussed  sharp- 
ly by  the  hollow  shadow;  held,  as  it  were,  within  his 
hand,  yet  far  remote,  almost  magical,  in  its  brightness 
and  perfection.  In  it  he  saw  the  figures  of  Mrs.  Law- 
rence, Sylvia,  and  Tom  sitting  among  the  flowers  in 
the  Dean's  garden.  He  could  see  Sylvia  spring  to  her 
feet  and  begin  to  flit  about  the  walks,  leaving  Tom,  his 
flexible  young  back  bent  like  a  bow  over  his  book,  still 
on  the  bench  beside  his  mother.  He  watched  the  dis- 
tant pantomime  which  told  him  how  she  was  begging 
her  mother  to  come  and  see  something  she  had  dis- 
covered among  the  box  rows,  how  Katherine  resisted, 
hesitated,  but  finally  was  persuaded  to  rise  from  her 
seat.  Then  he  saw  them  both  bend  to  examine  some 
small  object  among  the  sharp  red  flames  of  the  tulips. 
At  last  Katherine  stood  erect  again  and  Sylvia,  spring- 
ing upon  what  was  evidently  some  little  plant  which 
had  met  with  her  disapproval,  and  for  whose  destruc- 
tion she  had  gained  consent,  tore  it  up  by  the  roots  and 
flung  it  over  the  wall.  Tom  at  last  strolled  out  into 
the  sun,  evidently  at  his  mother's  bidding,  and  sprang 
up  with  his  hands  on  top  of  the  gray  wall  to  spy  out 
the  result  of  Sylvia's  lawless  action. 

There  was  no  harm  done  for  they  all  laughed  a 
little  and  then  went  back  to  their  seats  in  the  luminous 
shade.  It  was  nothing,  nothing  more  than  he  himself 
had  seen  and  felt  and  lived  through  a  thousand  times 
in  those  days  when  he  still  had  the  right  to  come  and 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  29 

go  in  that  garden.  Such  a  little  time  ago  it  had  been 
so  easy.  A  few  long  strides  among  the  gray  college 
buildings,  his  hand  on  the  latch,  his  shoulder  against 
a  stiffly  moving  gate,  and  it  had  all  lain  open  for  him, 
with  beloved  eyes  smiling  a  sure  welcome  at  the  end. 
The  road  had  grown  no  longer,  the  gate  would  move 
no  more  grudgingly  on  its  hinges,  and  she  would  al- 
ways greet  him  kindly,  compassionately,  for  Law- 
rence's sake,  if  for  nothing  more.  Apparently  just  the 
same,  but  different  as  one  of  those  troubled  dreams 
which,  while  preserving  a  semblance  of  delight,  tor- 
ture the  dreamer  with  the  underlying  sense  of  loss  and 
desolation.  It  was  gone  from  him  forever;  no  hope 
could  flatter  him  with  thoughts  of  restoration.  For- 
feited, plucked  from  him,  rather,  by  an  inexorable  and 
pursuing  fate,  sometime  eluded,  almost  escaped,  which 
had  at  last  outrun  him. 

With  a  half-suppressed  groan  he  shut  out  the  little 
enchanted  picture  with  his  hand,  and  turned  his  face 
upon  the  group  inside  the  dusty  room,  still  dark  and 
cheerless  with  the  winter's  chill.  This  weekly  meeting 
of  the  faculty  was  seldom  a  very  friendly  occasion,  and 
when  Cochran  finally  brought  his  attention  back  to 
his  colleagues  he  was  not  surprised  to  find  himself  in 
the  midst  of  a  heated,  jangling  argument.  The  Dean, 
always  a  most  informal  and  arbitrary  chairman,  looked 
shaken  and  agitated.  Directly  opposite  him  sat  the 
little  group  of  the  opposition,  headed  by  Merritt,  the 
professor  of  mathematics,  a  lean,  sallow-faced  man, 
with  reddish  hair  and  a  salient  nose  and  chin.  It  was 
he  who  was  speaking  when  Cochran  began  to  listen, 


30  IN    THE    HOUSE 

and  his  insolent  manner  to  the  Dean  made  the  other 
man's  blood  boil  and  his  wandering  thoughts  collect 
themselves  into  a  longing,  whatever  the  subject  under 
discussion,  to  prove  Merritt  in  the  wrong. 

"  But  the  young  man,  my  dear  Merritt,"  the  Dean 
was  saying.  "  Can't  we  stretch  matters  a  little  and 
give  the  young  man  a  chance  ?  " 

It  was  one  of  his  weaknesses,  inherited  no  doubt 
from  an  earlier  less  rigorous  idea  of  education,  to  think 
that  any  young  man  was  of  more  importance  than  the 
law  and  order  of  the  college. 

"  Quite  impossible !  Quite  impossible !  "  answered 
Merritt  in  his  strident  voice.  "  He  has  a  very  poor 
record ;  besides,  this  special  condition  stands  over  from 
his  junior  year." 

The  old  Dean  drew  his  brows  together  and  looked 
around  him.  "  How  does  he  stand  with  you,  Chand- 
ler? "  he  asked,  at  last,  turning  to  a  little  well-brushed 
gentleman  near  by,  whose  softly  colored  face,  framed 
in  fine  gray  curls  and  whiskers,  looked  exquisitely  well 
bred  and  unofficial  between  the  lean  countenances  of 
the  men  on  each  side  of  him. 

"  Young  Dullas,"  he  said  now  gently.  "  Yes,  yes, 
yes.  A  charming  fellow.  Yes,  with  me  he  has  done 
very  good  work,  very  promising  work." 

A  hardly  disguised  mutter  and  grin  of  contempt 
and  hard  amusement  went  round  the  group,  betraying 
the  small  esteem  in  which  his  colleagues  held  Pro- 
fessor Chandler's  courses. 

The  Dean,  however,  raised  his  head  with  a  sort  of 
mild  triumph,  till  the  harsh  voice  of  the  professor  of 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  31 

mathematics  broke  in  again  with  ill-concealed  impa- 
tience. 

"  All  this  seems  somewhat  outside  the  question, 
Dean.  Whether  the  fellow  has  or  has  not  done  well 
in  one  course  does  not  alter  the  fact  of  this  condition 
in  another,  and  until  he  has  passed  it  off  he  is  not  eligi- 
ble for  a  degree." 

"  A  degree,  a  degree,"  said  the  Dean,  made  incau- 
tious by  his  irritation.  "  But  he  must  get  a  degree. 
I  promised  his  father  as  much  when  he  sent  him  back 
to  try  again." 

There  was  a  moment's  horrified  silence.  The  fac- 
ulty conscience  was  outraged.  Professor  Merritt  threw 
himself  back  in  his  chair  and  whispered  rudely  to  his 
neighbor. 

"  At  least,"  said  the  Dean,  conscious  too  late  of  his 
mistake,  "  Of  course  he  must  meet  the  requirements." 

"  But  I  say  that  he  has  not  met  the  requirements," 
answered  Professor  Merritt. 

The  Dean  was  annoyed  and  replied,  rather  crossly, 
"  Possibly  not,  possibly  not,  so  far,  at  least ;  but  there 
is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  helped  to  meet  them. 
Honorably,  honorably,  of  course,"  he  added  testily. 
Then,  seeing  a  look  of  disapproval,  of  opposition, 
flash  from  one  face  to  another,  he  turned  with  a  sort 
of  tacit  appeal  in  his  kind  old  eyes  to  where  Cochran 
was  sitting,  still  silent,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him. 
But  he  did  not  look  up  or  show  any  sign  of  being 
conscious  of  anything  around  him,  and  the  Dean  him- 
self had  to  break  the  dead,  unfriendly  silence. 

"  Suppose  the  lad  has  that  one  condition  about 


32  IN   .THE   HOUSE 

which  he  can  really  claim  a  certain  negligence  on  our 
part  in  letting  it  run  on  so  far  without  reminding  him 
of  it.  He  stands  very  well  in  some  of  his  work.  Con- 
sidering his  perseverance  and  pluck  in  coming  back  for 
a  fifth  year  after  all  his  class  had  left,  to  retrieve  his 
failure,  to  win  a  degree  and  please  his  father " 

"  A  trustee  of  the  college,"  muttered  Merritt  un- 
pleasantly to  his  neighbor;  but  the  Dean  did  not  hear 
him,  and  concluded,  with  all  the  charm  and  warmth  of 
his  beautiful  old  voice  bent  to  an  appeal. 

"  It  seems  to  me  not  impossible  for  us,  working 
together,  to  find  some  way " 

But  the  magnetism  and  grace  of  manner,  irresisti- 
ble in  its  own  place,  fell  fruitless  before  these  unfriend- 
ly men,  who  thought  he  was  using  his  influence  for 
Stephen  because  he  wished  to  curry  favor  with  his 
father,  who  was  a  rich  man,  with  power  among  the 
trustees.  They  never  would  have  believed,  they  were 
incapable  of  understanding,  a  certain  quality  of  gen- 
erous enthusiasm  which,  while  not  utterly  indifferent 
to  the  material  advantages  and  consequences  of  an  ac- 
tion, glorifies  it  with  a  sort  of  fine  optimism  and  raises 
it  far  above  mere  mercenary  calculation. 

But  here  Cochran's  voice  broke  in  so  unexpectedly 
among  them  that  it  was  several  seconds  before  any  of 
them  understood  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  drunk,"  whispered  Pro- 
fessor Merritt,  with  a  half-sneer,  to  his  companion ;  but 
he  broke  off  in  a  hurry  to  answer  the  question  sud- 
denly directed  against  him. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  teaching  physics,  Mer- 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  33 

ritt.  I  did  not  know  physics  was  one  of  your  subjects 
this  year." 

"  It  isn't,"  stammered  Merritt  in  some  surprise. 

"  I  thought  not.  That  is  what  puzzled  me  at  first 
to  hear  you  talking  about  Dullas's  condition  as  if  it 
were  your  own  affair.  I  see  now  you  were  just  stand- 
ing by  and  lending  a  hand  to  Brauer  to  protect  him 
from  being  come  down  on  for  an  extra  examination." 

He  spoke  with  a  bravado  of  good  fellowship  which 
neither  Merritt  nor  Brauer  knew  how  to  resent.  To 
the  others  it  came  as  a  relief  after  the  long  jangle  which 
was  prolonging  the  meeting  far  beyond  its  usual  length, 
and  they  frankly  showed  their  amusement  at  the  in- 
sinuation of  the  real  reason  of  Brauer's  unwillingness 
to  oblige  the  Dean — the  laziness  of  that  gentleman  in 
his  department  being  quite  well  known  in  Littel  Col- 
lege. 

Mr.  Brauer,  a  large,  slow-moving,  middle-aged 
man,  with  a  square  brown  beard  and  a  fat  face,  re- 
plied at  last  somewhat  pompously  in  a  mellow,  pleasant 
voice,  spoiled  by  a  pretentious  accent : 

"  I  shan't  refuse  him  the  examination  if  he  asks 
for  it,  but  it  will  be  a  mere  waste  of  time.  He  didn't 
know  anything  about  the  subject  when  he  finished  it, 
and  that  was  two  years  ago." 

"  Time  enough  for  him  to  forget  what  he  didn't 
know,"  remarked  a  flippant  voice  from  the  other  end 
of  the  room. 

"  Why  don't  you  hand  him  over  to  a  tutor?  "  Coch- 
ran  continued.  "  Some  man  who  knows  the  course 
and  what  will  be  expected  of  him.  That  nephew  of 


34  IN    THE   HOUSE 

yours,  Brauer,  might  turn  another  honest  penny  out 
of  it.  He  is  doing  a  good  work  in  that  way  already, 
I  believe,  with  the  juniors." 

Professor  Brauer,  who  had  been  rocking  gently  to 
and  fro  on  two  legs  of  his  chair,  looking  very  smug 
and  pompous  in  his  character  of  faithful  upholder  of 
the  college  laws,  gradually  allowed  himself  to  settle 
firmly  on  the  ground  and  to  say  that  the  matter  might 
possibly  be  arranged  in  some  such  way. 

"  Well  now,  well  now,  very  good,  very  good,"  said 
the  Dean  with  great  satisfaction.  "  Shall  we  call  it 
settled?  I  shall  speak  myself  to  that  young  nephew 
of  yours,  Brauer ;  put  him  on  his  mettle.  He  is  a  very 
promising  fellow,  I  understand,  in  your  department, 
isn't  he,  Cochran?  We  must  keep  our  eye  on  him. 
He  has  his  way  to  make." 

"  Immoral  old  cuss !  "  soliloquized  the  young  tutor 
whose  blue  eyes  had  such  an  effect  on  Marjorie  Chand- 
ler's imagination. 

But  Cochran  cut  in  hastily  with  a  motion  for  ad- 
journment before  the  Dean  could  further  entangle  him- 
self. 

The  assembly,  thus  suddenly  restored  to  the  safe 
and  narrow  ways  of  parliamentary  usage,  quickly  made 
use  of  them  to  dismiss  itself. 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Brauer,"  said  Dr. 
Lawrence,  turning  to  the  professor  with  the  gracious 
manner  which  the  other  knew  so  ill  how  to  receive. 
"  In  fact  I  take  this  from  you  as  a  special  favor.  I 
have  a  personal  interest  in  the  young  man  for  his 
father's  sake ;  it  would  have  greatly  annoyed  me  at  this 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  35 

late  day  if  anything  had  happened  to  prevent  him  from 
taking  his  degree." 

He  glanced  across  to  where  Cochran  stood  upon  the 
steps,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  speak  to  him  too, 
but  the  other  kept  his  face  turned  away,  avoiding  the 
chance  of  meeting  his  eye;  so  after  a  moment,  with 
his  usual  courtly  bow  and  "  Good  evening,  gentlemen," 
he  joined  Professor  Chandler,  who  was  waiting  for 
him  below,  and  the  two  went  slowly  off  together  down 
the  path  toward  the  chapel,  the  Dean  towering  above 
his  little  companion,  his  loose  cloak  lending  a  sort  of 
amplitude  to  his  slender  old  figure,  his  fine  head  bent 
forward  looking  on  the  ground. 

Merritt  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  to 
Brauer. 

"  He  seems  to  think  it  is  quite  settled,  doesn't  he, 
after  he  has  once  mentioned  his  personal  interest  in 
the  matter?  Well,  I  suppose  with  men  trained  under 
his  uncle  that  is  the  way  he  would  have  carried  it,  but 
I  guess  he  is  beginning  to  find  that  this  faculty  is  made 
of  different  stuff." 

"  He  can  hardly  fail  to  feel  it  so,"  remarked  Coch- 
ran, who  had  been  listening.  "  I  don't  see  any  men 
among  us  who  take  the  place  Constable  did  in  botany, 
for  instance,  or  who  equal  the  scholarship  of  Curtis  and 
Lewis,  let  us  say.  We  are  just  a  lot  of  fellows,  well 
trained,  perhaps,  in  our  special  subjects,  moving  along 
the  line  of  preferment  which  takes  us  for  the  time  to 
this  small  college  on  our  way  to  more  important  posi- 
tions, if  we  can  get  them."  He  laughed  a  little  scorn- 
fully. "  Of  course  we  are  devoted  to  the  college  while 


36  IN   THE    HOUSE 

we  are  in  it.  Our  only  hope  of  advancement,  in  fact, 
is  by  keeping  it  in  line  with  the  others,  because  connec- 
tion with  a  second-class  institution  injures  our  own 
chances  of  advancement." 

If  there  had  not  been  such  mordant  scorn  in  the 
manner  of  this  speech  the  matter  might  have  gone  un- 
challenged ;  but  "  Oh,  come  now,  Cochran,"  said  one 
of  the  group  who  still  stood  on  the  office  steps,  "  you 
needn't  take  such  a  high  and  mighty  tone  about  it !  " 

It  was  the  head  of  the  classical  department  who 
spoke,  a  pleasant-looking  man  with  rather  rigid  feat- 
ures, light,  curly  hair,  growing  scanty  on  the  temples, 
and  bright,  cold  blue  eyes.  "  You  know  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  law  and  a  standard.  If  the  dear  old  Dean 
had  his  way  the  degree  conferred  by  Littel  College 
would  be  no  better  than  the  paper  it  is  written  on.  I 
got  mine  from  here  and  I  propose  to  keep  up  its  value." 

Cochran  turned  upon  him  with  a  face  like  a  thunder- 
cloud. "  My  dear  fellow,  I  can  perfectly  see  that  to 
a  man  of  your  calibre  the  value  of  your  degree  is  of 
the  greatest  importance,  and  I  should  advise  you  to 
keep  it  up  as  high  as  possible  by  all  means  in  your 
power.  As  for  you,  Brauer,"  he  bent  his  gaze  suddenly 
on  the  professor  of  physics,  who  was  beginning  to 
make  his  way  ponderously  down  the  steps,  "  as  for  you, 
and  this  matter  of  Stephen  Dullas's  condition,  the  Dean 
thanks  you  because  it  all  lies  in  your  hands.  Of  course, 
you  can  give  the  boy  a  paper  that  no  man  can  pass, 
and  just  as  much  of  course  you  can  give  him  one  that 
no  man  could  fail  in.  Now  I  would  advise  you  not 
to  let  the  private  spite  of  another  man  influence  you 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  37 

in  this  matter,  and  if  the  Dean  chooses  to  take  your 
leniency  as  a  personal  favor,  why  in  God's  name  do  a 
personal  favor  to  a  man  old  enough  to  be  your  father, 
who,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  won't  have  many 
more  to  ask  you.  Good  Heavens,  what  a  hurry  you  are 
in — some  of  you — "  He  cast  an  ominous  glance  at 
the  retreating  figure  of  the  professor  of  mathematics, 
who,  in  his  haste  for  the  supper  his  wife  was  keeping 
hot  for  him,  was  already  out  of  ear-shot.  "  What  a 
hurry  you  are  in  to  fill  a  dead  man's  shoes,  and  how 
little  fit  any  of  you  are  to  do  it !  " 

He  was  already  some  distance  on  his  way  home 
before  Brauer  could  open  his  mouth  to  reply  or  Brown- 
ell  had  begun  to  realize  that  he  had  been  insulted. 

It  was  so  like  Cochran  to  flout  them  in  the  face  of 
all  they  knew  about  him,  to  challenge  their  motives  and 
conduct  when  any  one  of  them  could  have  turned  upon 
him  with  retorts  so  obvious  as  to  be  almost  banal;  to 
sneer  at  their  hard-working  incapacity,  when  any  gift 
of  his  which  might  have  made  him  their  superior  lay 
in  the  dust  at  their  very  feet.  There  was  something 
so  daring,  so  insolent  about  it  that  it  struck  them  with 
a  sort  of  unwilling  admiration.  So  Brownell  con- 
tented himself  with  saying,  "  By  Jove,"  though  his 
blond  face  grew  rather  red,  and  the  others  only  laughed 
a  little  and  started  off  peaceably  in  different  directions 
to  supper — that  simple  evening  meal  which  was  still 
universal  in  Littelton. 


THE  Dean  felt  himself  suddenly  unusually  de- 
pressed as  he  sat  down  opposite  his  daughter- 
in-law  at  the  pretty,  old  mahogany  table,  shining  with 
silver  and  glass.  He  noticed  with  a  sort  of  querulous 
discontent  that  Sylvia's  place  was  empty.  Where  was 
the  child? 

"  Taking  supper  with  the  Chandlers,"  said  her 
mother. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  sank  into  a  trance 
of  meditation,  his  fingers  tapping  the  table  in  front  of 
him,  his  heavy  brows  knit,  his  lips  pushed  out  and 
drawn  together  in  a  sort  of  pout,  apparently  quite  un- 
conscious that  every  one  was  waiting  his  attention  be- 
fore the  meal  could  begin. 

"  Won't  you  say  grace,  sir,"  said  Katherine  at  last, 
with  a  little  effort  over  the  inherent  shyness  which  is 
so  apt  to  reassert  itself  in  any  prolonged  silence.  She 
would  rather  not  have  spoken  at  all,  but  Tom's  en- 
treating looks,  cast  toward  where  she  sat  behind  the 
tea-urn,  as  well  as  the  decorously  concealed  impatience 
of  the  white-aproned  servant  at  her  side,  at  last  com- 
bined to  overcome  her  diffidence. 

The  Dean  started. 

"  Yes ;  oh,  yes,  of  course,"  but  he  sank  immediately 
afterward  into  renewed  abstraction,  hardly  noticing  the 

38 


IN   THE    HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS    39 

dishes  that  were  passed  to  him,  and  forgetting  to»  drink 
his  tea  till  it  was  cold. 

Tom,  however,  made  all  the  haste  that  was  con- 
sistent with  decency  and  a  good  appetite.  He  was  only 
a  Freshman  at  Littel  College,  but  his  class  had  done 
him  the  honor  of  entrusting  him  with  office.  He  was 
the  kind  of  youth  who  took  his  responsibilities  very 
seriously  and  he  deeply  felt  the  importance  of  the  busi- 
ness awaiting  him  this  evening.  He  had  been  already 
suffering  from  the  fear  of  being  late,  and  the  moment 
they  rose  from  table  he  was  preparing  to  take  a  hur- 
ried departure  when  he  stopped  aghast  on  hearing  his 
grandfather  speak  to  him. 

"  Halloo!  Where  are  you  going  so  fast,  my  boy? 
Down-town  ?  Just  wait  a  moment,  I  want  you  to  post 
a  letter  for  me."  He  went  toward  his  study  table. 

Tom  stood  stock-still,  not  saying  a  word,  but  gaz- 
ing at  his  mother  in  dumb  entreaty.  His  grandfather, 
noticing  his  silence,  looked  back  quickly. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"  Can't  Molly  take  it  ?  "  muttered  Tom  in  gruff 
embarrassment. 

The  Dean  turned  upon  him  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
irritation. 

"  Molly?  No !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  If  I  had  wanted 
one  of  the  servants  I  should  have  called  her  in  the  first 
place.  But  that  is  always  the  way;  a  great,  strong 
fellow  like  you  about  the  house,  never  willing  to  do 
anything  for  anybody,  always  trying  to  shirk  any  ser- 
vice that  is  asked  you,  to  put  it  on  some  woman.  No, 
sir,  don't  wait,"  as  Tom  silently  and  with  downcast 


40  IN   THE   HOUSE 

eyes  laid  aside  his  cap  and  dropped  himself  into  one 
of  the  chairs  in  the  study,  preparing  to  assuage  his 
impatience  with  a  little  brown  book  he  found  at  hand 
upon  the  table. 

"  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  don't  want  you  to  wait.  Go 
about  your  business.  I  can't  stand  ungracious  service. 
I  shall  take  the  letter  down  myself  when  it  is  finished." 

"  Tom  is  quite  willing  to  do  anything  for  you,  sir, 
that  is  necessary,  I  am  sure,"  Katherine  broke  in  depre- 
catingly  between  them,  "  but  it  is  Thursday  night,  you 
know,  and  there  is  the  Freshman  meeting " 

"  Oh,  if  there  is  any  good  reason,  that  makes  it  a 
very  different  matter,"  said  the  Dean,  quickly  mollified. 
"  It  is  all  right,  boy.  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  short  with 
you.  Cut  along,  cut  along." 

Though  before  Tom  could  disappear,  he  burst  out 
again  with  an  aftermath  of  indignation. 

"  But  why  didn't  you  say  it  out  frankly  as  your 
father  would  have  done,  instead  of  scowling  and  hang- 
ing your  head  like  a  surly  dog?  " 

Tom  disappeared  without  a  word. 

"  I  hate  an  ungracious  manner,"  continued  the 
old  man,  grumbling,  half  to  himself,  half  to  his 
daughter-in-law,  who  had  followed  him  into  his  study 
and  was  trimming  his  lamp  and  arranging  the  ma- 
terials on  his  table.  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  where 
he  gets  it.  It  is  quite  different  from  his  father  at  his 
age.  My  son  would  have  run  his  legs  off  for  any  one 
at  the  slightest  word,  and  never  stopped  to  ask  if  it 
was  necessary." 

"  Tom  hasn't  the  gift  of  expression,"  said  Mrs. 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  41 

Lawrence  gently.  "  I  am  quite  sure  he  is  as  ready  to 
help  you  as  his  father  would  have  been,  but  he  doesn't 
know  how  to  say  so." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  Dean, 
letting  himself  down  heavily  into  his  study  chair,  so 
that  the  screw  on  which  it  turned  groaned  with  his 
weight,  and  beginning  to  fumble  with  his  knotty, 
bloodless  old  fingers  among  the  pens  and  papers. 

"  It  is  like  all  the  young  fellows,  now  a  days,  al- 
ways wanting  to  do  everything  their  own  way ;  no  such 
thing  as  unquestioning  obedience." 

His  daughter  stood  looking  at  him  gravely,  anx- 
iously, and  then  with  a  sort  of  wistful  intensity  which 
brought  out  all  the  underlying  sadness  in  her  calm 
young  face.  She  understood  too  well  to  resent  his 
causeless  burst  of  irritation  against  young  Tom,  and 
she  was  too  unused  to  considering  her  own  sensations 
to  be  more  than  dimly  conscious  how  unreasonably  she 
was  hurt  by  it.  She  was  absorbed  in  a  poignant  sym- 
pathy, almost  anguish,  for  the  old  man,  used  to  com- 
mand, used  to  preeminence,  whose  power  was  slipping 
away  from  him — that  was  inevitable,  with  his  advan- 
cing years — but  whose  decay  was  every  day  made  more 
painfully  evident  to  himself  by  the  unfriendly  criticism 
and  opposition  of  men  who  should  have  been  his  co- 
workers  ;  men  his  inferiors  still  in  genius  and  generous 
forces,  but  strong  and  pitiless  in  their  youth  and  the 
understanding  of  a  generation  which  had  left  him  be- 
hind. 

He  finished  his  letter  with  his  usual  vigorous,  pict- 
uresque signature. 


42  IN    THE    HOUSE 

"  What  is  the  date?  "  he  said,  raising  his  massive 
old  head.  "  May  3d."  He  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing. 
"  My  son  Tom's  birthday.  He  would  have  been — let 
me  see,  six  from  seven  are  forty-one.  Heigh-ho — I 
wonder " 

It  was  not  so  much  a  question  as  a  cry  of  regret 
and  need,  the  dropping  of  the  cloak  which  covered 
from  every  one,  himself  most  of  all,  the  wounds  which 
daily  humiliated  his  pride.  Then  his  vain  old  spirit 
quickly  caught  his  disguises  around  him  again.  When 
he  looked  up  and  saw  his  daughter's  eyes  full  of 
tears,  he  never  dreamed  that  it  was  for  him  they  were 
shed. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear.  I  ought  not  to  have  re- 
minded you." 

She  smiled  faintly  and  shook  her  head. 

"  You  must  be  very  tired.  It  was  a  very  long 
faculty  meeting;  I  thought  it  would  never  end.  Was 
Professor  Merritt  making  himself  more  than  usually 
disagreeable  ?  " 

This  remark  was  provocative  and  brought  forth  its 
customary  reply. 

"  My  dear,  you  misjudge  him,"  said  the  Dean,  lay- 
ing himself  down  very  carefully  on  his  long  leathern 
sofa ;  "  he  has  an  unpleasant  manner,  I  grant,  and  he 
was  rather  offensive  to-day,  I  own ;  unintentionally  so, 
unintentionally,  I  am  sure,  in  his  desire  that  I  should 
account  for  the  expenditure  of  your  Aunt  Sarah's  leg- 
acy to  the  college.  You  know  there  was  great  infor- 
mality in  the  way  it  was  left  us.  Upon  my  word," 
said  the  old  Dean,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  indignation, 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  43 

"  they  couldn't  have  been  more  insulting  if  they  thought 
I  had  stolen  it." 

"  But  I  don't  see  how  even  Professor  Merritt  can 
think  he  has  anything  to  do  with  the  finances  of  the 
college,"  answered  Katherine  with  ironic  gentleness. 

"  Well,  you  see,  some  of  the  trustees  have  been 
talking  imprudently,  and  this  fellow  has  got  wind  of 
the  proposed  cut  in  the  salaries.  Of  course  there  is 
nothing  yet  decided.  I,  myself,  am  strongly  opposed 
to  it.  But  something  must  be  done  to  bring  down  the 
expenses.  The  college  is  falling  behind  every  year. 
We  feel  the  competition  of  the  large  universities  even 
in  the  attitude  of  the  alumni.  They  are  more  and  more 
transferring  their  interests  and  sending  their  sons  and 
leaving  their  money  to  Harvard  and  Yale.  It  is  a  pity, 
a  great  pity,"  concluded  the  old  man  with  a  touch  of 
melancholy,  "  for  there  is  much  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
a  small  college." 

"  This  has  never  been  a  small  college,"  said  Kath- 
erine with  soft  pride.  "  In  numbers,  perhaps,  but  the 
men  who  served  it  have  been  great  and  had  great  aims." 

The  Dean  was  pleased. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in 
what  you  say.  When  I  think  of  Lewis,  unapproach- 
able in  his  subject,  to  whom  any  place  was  open,  con- 
tent to  spend  the  prime  of  his  life  here  among  his 
boys — and  Curtis."  The  Dean  told  over  the  old  names 
one  by  one. 

"  What  scholarship !  What  rare  and  gifted  intel- 
ligence, and,  my  dear  Kitty,  what  character!  It  is 
there  I  feel  that  the  men  of  the  present  age  are  lacking. 


44  IN    THE    HOUSE 

There  is  a  hardness  and  coldness,  a  mercenary  spirit, 
a  lack  of  generous  fire  and  enthusiasm.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  I  don't  understand  them." 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  long,  quarrelsome  meet- 
ing of  the  afternoon. 

"  And  then,  you  know,  dear  doctor,"  said  his 
daughter-in-law,  a  little  mischief  showing  through  her 
seriousness,  "  even  in  those  old  times,  under  your 
uncle,  I  have  heard  that  his  faculty  did  not  always 
let  him  do  as  he  wanted." 

"  Ah,  yes !  "  said  the  old  man  with  sudden  energy, 
"  but  those  were  battles  of  Titans.  I  remember  once — 
I  had  just  been  appointed  to  my  professorship — there 
arose  a  point  of  difference  between  my  uncle  and  Dr. 
Welling.  I  have  forgotten  the  subject.  We  young 
fellows  held  our  breath  and  listened.  Such  eloquence, 
such  acumen,  such  keenness  of  argument,  and  such 
courtesy !  Never  ruffled  for  a  moment,  though  the  dis- 
cussion was  not  without  warm  feeling  on  both  sides. 
But  any  of  those  men  would  have  given  their  lives  for 
the  college,  and  their  last  hour  of  service  to  my  uncle, 
without  stopping  to  weigh  the  cost.  Ah !  "  he  sighed, 
"  I  suppose  it  is  my  own  fault  that  I  have  not  been 
able  to  win  the  same  support." 

"  No,"  said  Katherine,  "  it  is  only  that  you  have 
fallen  upon  different  days.  Those  older  men  gave — 
these  men  want  to  gain — distinction  in  their  service  of 
you  and  the  college." 

"Ah,  well!  Ah,  well!  We  won't  judge  them 
harshly,"  said  the  Dean  with  kindly  optimism.  "  Some 
of  them  are  men  whose  education  meant  the  most  stren- 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  45 

uous  self-denial,  a  constant  struggle  with  small  means 
and  poor  opportunities.  Look  at  Brauer,  for  instance, 
a  farmer's  lad,  who  himself  supplemented  the  defi- 
ciencies of  the  country  school.  And  Merritt,  the  son 
of  a  saloon-keeper  at  Statesburg,  whose  cleverness  won 
him  a  scholarship  at  Yale.  They  must  have  their  en- 
thusiasms. They  must  have  their  ideals,  if  one  could 
get  at  them.  But  Cochran  managed  them  better  than 
I  did  this  afternoon,"  he  concluded  with  a  burst  of 
frankness.  "  There  was  a  question  about  the  fitness  of 
one  of  the  young  men — Stephen  Dullas,  my  dear — for 
final  degrees.  It  was  a  small  point  in  itself,  but  a 
great  deal  was  made  of  it.  I  own  I  found  myself  en- 
tirely at  a  disadvantage  among  them.  They  had  jus- 
tice on  their  side,  technically,"  the  Dean  admitted; 
"  yes,  technically,  they  always  do  have  a  certain  jus- 
tice; but  Cochran  can  understand  that  there  are  things 
beyond  technical  justice.  But  he  is  young,  he  is  one 
of  them.  He  knows  where  to  find  them  as  I  do  not. 
It  was  all  perfectly  simple  afterward." 

"  Then  he  was  there  ?  "  said  Katherine  very  low. 

The  Dean  nodded. 

"  Yes.  I  did  not  speak  to  him.  He  did  not  seem 
to  desire  it.  I  left  him  talking  to  the  other  men  on 
the  steps." 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  moments  till  the  Dean 
began  again  in  a  different  tone  of  voice. 

"  How  your  husband  loved  him,  Kitty !  How 
he  watched  over  him!  It  seems  strange  that  all 
that  care  and  devotion  should  have  been  utterly  in 
vain." 


46  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Katherine  was  silent  and  the  Dean  went  on,  half 
to  himself. 

"  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  I  did  all  I  could  in 
that  matter." 

"  He  himself  thought  so,"  murmured  Katherine 
half-involuntarily. 

"  Yes,  yes,  in  the  past.  Perhaps  I  did,  but  I  mean 
this  last.  I  sometimes  think  that  if  Tom  had  been 
alive  he  would  have  managed  better.  The  woman  was 
evidently  venal,  she  might  have  been  bought  off.  But 
I  never  quite  understood.  She  and  her  father  evidently 
thought  they  had  some  prior  claim  on  him.  It  was 
certainly  a  marriage,  and  I  could  find  out  nothing  to 
show  she  was  not  a  perfectly  reputable  person.  I  made 
it  very  clear  how  little  she  could  gain  by  it,  but  she 
was  dazzled  by  what  she  seemed  to  consider  an  advance 
in  social  position.  And  then  I  believe  she  was  at- 
tached to  him  after  a  fashion." 

Katherine  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes  and  held  it 
clasped  across  her  brows  as  the  Dean  went  on  talking. 

"  Cochran  himself  was  a  difficulty.  You  know  he 
was  always  capable  of  acts  of  quixotic  extravagance. 
He  seemed  to  feel  it  was  the  price  he  must  pay  for  his 
fall.  If  I  had  known,  however,"  said  the  Dean,  ram- 
bling on,  "  if  I  could  have  foreseen.  He  was  not  fit 
then  to  judge  for  himself.  The  price  was  too  great. 
He  ought  not  to  have  been  allowed  to  pay  it.  Ah,  Kitty, 
what  a  noble  nature,  but  how  pitiably  alloyed!  And 
yet  in  his  deepest  falls  he  always  preserved  a  chastity 
of  spirit.  The  soul  remained  clean,  however  low  it  was 
dragged  by  the  body.  And  even  now,  when  he  gives 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  47 

himself  a  chance,  the  fire  flashes  up  again  as  bright 
as  ever,  untainted  by  the  dross  it  feeds  on.  But  when 
I  think  of  him  as  he  was,  such  a  little  time  ago,  his 
powerful,  gifted  mind — too  intolerant  and  impatient  of 
slow  stupidity,  perhaps,  and  yet  so  gentle  and  tender 
with  those  he  loved;  his  graceful,  vivid  fancy;  his 
charm  of  manner ;  all  this,  and  then  to  see  him  as  he  is 
now !  Ah,  Kitty,  what  a  wreck !  what  a  wreck !  " 

He  fell  silent.  When  Katherine  at  last  looked  up, 
with  a  certain  effort,  she  saw  him  rapt  in  anxious 
thought.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  interrupt  his 
musing ;  then,  hearing  him  sigh : 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you,  sir  ?  "  she  said,  and  took  up 
the  book  that  lay  open  on  her  knee. 

In  a  very  little  while  his  regular  breathing  showed 
that  he  had  fallen  asleep,  but  she  did  not  move  or  try 
to  occupy  herself  otherwise.  She  sat  very  quiet,  the 
book  lying  idle  in  her  lap,  her  hands  clasped  above  it, 
sunk  in  profound  and  melancholy  revery. 


VI 


A  VOICE  came  to  her  softly  from  the  darkened 
outer  room.     "  Mamma !  "     It  was  Sylvia, 
come  home  from  her  party,  pausing  now  on  the  outer 
threshold  with  her  usual  cry,  the  insistent  demand  for 
welcome  after  the  shortest  absence. 

Katherine  put  aside  her  book  and  went  out  to  meet 
her. 

"  Hush !  You  will  wake  your  grandfather.  Did 
you  have  a  nice  time?  " 

"  Well,  let  us  stay  out  here,  then,"  said  Sylvia, 
drawing  her  mother  down  upon  a  seat  in  the  hall  and 
taking  her  place  on  the  last  curved  step  of  the  stairs 
at  her  feet. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it.  Oh,  yes,  we  had  a 
very  nice  time,  at  least  I  did!  Do  you  know,  dear, 
I  was  very  amusing?  That  young  Mr.  Field  was  there 
— the  new  tutor  whose  eyes  Marjorie  thinks  so  beauti- 
ful— and  I  talked,  I  am  afraid  I  talked  a  great  deal; 
but  they  all  laughed  and  encouraged  me,  and  I  felt 
that  I  was  appearing  to  advantage,"  she  concluded 
quaintly. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  you  were,"  replied  her  mother 
a  little  cruelly;  "  but  I  am  afraid  you  were  being  very 
silly  and  imprudent." 

48 


IN    THE    HOUSE   OF   HER   FRIENDS     49 

"  Probably  I  was,  but  one  has  to  be  a  little  silly  to 
be  amusing,  and  I  shall  try  to  forget  my  imprudences, 
so  as  not  to  worry  over  them.  That  is  the  trouble  of 
having  a  nice  time;  it  always  leaves  you  so  much  to 
repent  of.  The  kind  of  life  I  should  choose,  the  kind 
of  life  I  should  like  to  live,  is  where  everything  comes 
so  fast  that  there  is  no  time  to  think  about  it,  and 
consider  it,  and  wonder  how  one  could  have  done  dif- 
ferently. Here  one  thing  follows  the  other  so  slowly 
that  it  leaves  too  much  time  for  reprisals — no,  that 
isn't  the  word." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  the  word,"  said  her  mother 
laughing  a  little. 

"  Reflection  is  what  I  really  meant,"  concluded 
Sylvia  with  dignity.  Then,  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
subject,  she  continued: 

"  Well,  what  did  you  do  while  I  was  away  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  her  mother,  sitting  with  one 
elbow  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  her  head  supported 
against  her  hand,  while  she  looked  down  sideways  and 
smiling  at  Sylvia  on  the  step  at  her  feet.  "  After  you 
went — "  she  mused  a  moment ;  "  I  stopped  in  the 
kitchen,  on  my  way  from  the  garden,  to  speak  to  Liz- 
zie, and  before  I  could  get  upstairs  Stephen  came 
with  a  great  armful  of  apple-blossoms." 

"  He  could  never  have  got  them  himself,"  cried 
Sylvia  unkindly ;  "  he  is  too  lazy." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  he  brought  them  himself,"  re- 
marked her  mother,  "  and  stayed  while  I  was  arrang- 
ing them.  You  will  see  them  to-morrow  in  the  parlor ; 
they  look  very  pretty.  Then  it  was  time  to  get  ready 


50  IN   THE   HOUSE 

for  tea,  and  Tom  and  I  waited  and  waited  for  your 
grandfather,  who  was  very  late — and  very  tired.  After 
tea  he  lay  on  the  sofa  and  I  read  him  to  sleep.  That 
is  all,  I  think." 

"  Was  Stephen  sorry  I  wasn't  there?  "  asked  Syl- 
via with  naivete. 

"  He  bore  it  very  well,"  answered  her  mother,  her 
smile  becoming  more  amused. 

But  Sylvia's  high  spirits  had  begun  to  evaporate. 
She  sat  silent  a  few  moments,  and  when  she  spoke 
again  her  mood  had  entirely  changed. 

"Oh,  lam  sobered!" 

Katherine  echoed  the  word  with  some  surprise. 

"  Why,  just  now  you  were  very  much  amused." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that !  But  I  mean  really.  When  am  I 
going  to  grow  up  and  go  away  from  here  and  have 
things  happen  to  me?  " 

"  Things  may  happen  to  you  here,"  said  Katherine 
with  a  grave  smile. 

"  No,"  cried  Sylvia  extravagantly,  "  nothing  ever 
happens  here !  I  have  lived  here  all  my  life  long,  and 
nothing  has  ever  happened  either  to  me  or  any  one 
else." 

Katherine  broke  into  a  little  cry  of  somewhat  pain- 
ful amusement. 

"  You  are  very  absurd ! "  she  said  reprovingly. 
"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  At  least  as  far  as  other 
people  are  concerned?  You,  of  course,  have  led  what 
may  be  called  an  uneventful  life,  but  then  you  are  still 
very  young." 

"  Not  as  young  as  you  were,  mamma,"  rejoined 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  51 

Sylvia  plaintively.  "  Just  think  of  all  the  things  you 
had  seen  and  known,  long  before  you  were  my  age; 
all  those  amusing  years  in  Paris  with  grandmother  and 
Aunt  Ruth,  and  the  clever,  exciting  people  you  met — 
and  then,  papa,"  she  concluded  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Katherine  with  a  sort  of  wonder, 
"  when  I  was  no  older  than  you  I  was  already  married 
to  your  father,  and  had  come  here  to  live,  and  was 
thinking  of  you,"  looking  down  at  her  little  daughter 
with  sudden  tenderness. 

Sylvia  caught  her  mother's  hand,  which  was  hang- 
ing straight  beside  her,  and  pressed  it  against  her 
cheek.  They  both  sat  silent  a  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Law- 
rence gazing  musingly  in  front  of  her,  Sylvia  watching 
her  more  and  more  wistfully. 

"  Mamma,  dear,"  she  began  again  abruptly,  "  what 
is  it  about  your  eyes  sometimes  that  makes  me  want  to 
cry  ?  Are  you  sad  ?  " 

"  My  eyes  always  looked  sad,  even  when  I  was  a 
child,"  said  Katherine,  recalled  from  her  own  thoughts, 
and  smiling  a  little  dimly.  "  It  is  something  in  their 
shape  and  the  way  they  are  set.  Yours,  on  the  con- 
trary, always  laugh." 

"  I  don't  want  them  to  laugh,"  cried  Sylvia.  "  It 
will  make  everybody  think  I  can  never  be  unhappy." 

"  Poor  baby,"  said  her  mother,  not  very  seriously, 
"  are  you  unhappy,  now  ?  " 

Sylvia  nodded. 

"And  why?" 

"  I  want  something,"  she  whispered  with  a  rest- 
less sigh.  "  I  don't  know  exactly  what,  but  I  think 


52  IN   THE   HOUSE 

it  is  sorrow.  Don't  say  you  hope  I  shan't  have  any. 
That  is  what  people  always  do  when  they  have  had  a 
great  deal  themselves.  And  yet  you  wouldn't  have 
wished  yours  away,  would  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Katherine,  and  caught  her  breath  as 
if  she  would  have  recalled  the  word  as  soon  as  she  had 
spoken  it.  Then  she  went  on  more  seriously,  though 
still  smiling  a  little  into  Sylvia's  upturned  face. 

"  I  shan't  wish  yours  away  from  you,  Sylvia ;  it 
will  come  some  day,  in  its  own  time;  but  you  know 
one  of  the  things  about  sorrow  is  that  it  always  comes 
from  the  direction  you  would  rather  not." 

"  The  thing  one  would  rather  not,"  said  Sylvia 
meditatively.  "  Well,  I  don't  care !  "  Her  mind  went 
roving,  with  a  kind  of  daring,  among  various  possibili- 
ties. "  If  only  you  don't  die,  dear  mamma,"  she  con- 
cluded suddenly.  "  Please,  don't !  "  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  mother's  lap. 

"  You  little  goose,"  said  Katherine,  laughing,  and 
laying  her  hand  lightly  on  her  daughter's  hair.  "  I 
think  it  must  be  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 

"  I  am  glad  you  belong  to  me !  I  am  glad  you  are 
all  mine !  "  cried  Sylvia,  springing  to  her  feet  and  press- 
ing her  cheek  against  her  mother's,  with  something  of 
the  gesture  of  an  affectionate  kitten,  as  she  said  good- 
night. 

All  hers?  So  she  believed,  and  Katherine  did  not 
contradict  her,  though  the  smile  which  followed  her 
as  she  ran  upstairs  grew  fainter  through  the  pang  of 
the  half-untruth.  For  what  was  there  of  Sylvia's  in 
that  little  heap  of  letters,  such  a  tiny  heap  indeed  that 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  53 

they  could  be  entirely  covered  by  a  man's  two  hands, 
as  they  lay  before  Wilfred  Cochran  on  his  study  table, 
though  their  dates  reached  back  for  many  years,  all 
the  years  while  Sylvia  was  growing  up  and  turning 
from  a  child  to  a  woman?  Nothing  there  which  be- 
longed to  her,  nothing  that  was  not  all  his,  all  that 
was  left  him  now  of  a  much  greater  treasure. 

He  took  one  letter  from  among  the  last  of  the  little 
heap  before  him,  drew  it  from  its  envelope  and  read 
again  the  familiar  words,  little,  cold  words,  formed 
smoothly  and  gracefully,  in  her  pretty,  legible  hand- 
writing. "  Thank  you  for  the  book.  I  found  it  when 
I  came  home  this  afternoon.  I  was  especially  glad, 
because  it  told  me  you  were  back  again.  I  missed  you." 

He  opened  another  and  felt  a  pang  as  he  remem- 
bered his  happiness  when  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
words,  "  Dear  Wilfred."  Then  came  one,  "  Wilfred, 
dear,  you  are  very  good  never  to  reproach  me  for  be- 
ing cold  to  you.  Is  it  because  you  know  when  I  say 
nothing,  and  you  say  so  much,  that  I  am  not  silent 
from  coldness?  I  think  I  am  shy,  dear.  I  have 
thoughts  in  my  heart  for  you,  thoughts  you  would  like 
to  hear,  but  when  I  try  to  say  them,  something  keeps 
them  back.  Even  now,  when  I  am  alone  and  you  are 
far  away,  I  feel  my  heart  beat  and  my  breath  grow 
short  while  I  am  only  writing  '  Wilfred,  dear,  I  love 
you.'  " 

The  paper  dropped  from  his  hands,  and  for  a  few 
moments  he  sat  immovable,  staring  widely  in  front  of 
him.  This  was  what  he  had  got,  the  slow  consent, 
after  years  of  patient  and  devoted  wooing;  the  difficult 


54 

surrender  of  a  shy,  proud  nature,  to  whom  expression 
came  as  a  sort  of  anguish.  And  how  had  he  re- 
warded it  ? 

In  the  height  of  his  confidence,  without  warning, 
almost  without  a  struggle,  his  hidden  enemy  had  seized 
him  by  the  throat  and  overcome  him.  In  the  first 
madness  of  defeat  nothing  had  seemed  left  to  him  but 
instant  flight,  escape,  concealment ;  and  then,  he  hardly 
knew  how,  by  the  dim  influence  of  half-effaced  asso- 
ciation, he  had  been  led  to  a  little  place  where  long  ago, 
when  he  was  a  cadet  at  West  Point,  he  had  gone  in  a 
moment  of  like  extremity,  in  the  indulgence  of  the 
weakness  which  had  ruined  his  career,  which  had 
stripped  him  of  his  first-class  honors,  and  left  him  at 
last  to  begin  the  world  over  again,  with  damaged  fort- 
unes. There  had  been  a  woman  there  then,  a  girl 
his  own  age,  who  had  been  kind  to  him.  She  was  there 
still. 

When  he  came  to  his  senses  he  found  her  beside 
him,  bound  to  him.  He  took  up  the  last  of  the  little 
pile  of  letters. 

"  Dear  Wilfred,"  it  ran,  "  I  understand  and  I  for- 
give you.  Please  be  good." 

"  Forgive  me !  Oh,  forgive  me ! "  he  said,  with 
the  bit  of  stained  and  rumpled  paper  close  against  his 
lips,  "  for  there  is  no  good  in  me  any  more." 


VII 


KATHERINE  was  very  busy  in  the  Dean's  garden, 
setting  out  a  box  of  plants  which  had  just  come 
from  the  nurseries,  when  Stephen  Dullas  opened  the 
gate. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  he  asked  with  decent  hesita- 
tion. 

She  smiled  at  him  kindly  from  under  her  shady 
garden  hat.  "  If  you  don't  mind  my  going  on  with 
what  I  am  doing.  They  ought  to  have  been  put  in  this 
morning,  and  they  will  be  spoiled  if  they  wait  any 
longer." 

He  closed  the  gate  behind  him  at  once  and  came 
to  stand  beside  her  as  she  worked,  following  her  from 
place  to  place,  ministering  to  her  wants  with  mechan- 
ical officiousness  when  she  made  demands  upon  him 
for  watering-pot  or  garden  tools.  She  was  always  sur- 
prisingly patient  with  him,  no  matter  how  often  he 
came  or  how  much  of  her  time  he  wasted.  She  was 
at  ease  with  him,  sure  of  his  affection,  and  touched, 
perhaps,  more  than  she  knew,  by  the  sweetness  of  his 
vicarious  love-making,  for  he  came  to  her  with  all  the 
more  serious  part  of  his  sentiment  for  Sylvia,  a  per- 
fected Sylvia,  gentler,  more  human,  less  elusive,  to 
whom  he  could  pour  out  his  mind  with  no  danger  of 
being  laughed  at. 

55 


56  IN    THE   HOUSE 

But  just  now  she  was  too  absorbed  in  her  own  oc- 
cupation to  give  him  more  than  a  perfunctory  atten- 
tion. She  had  on  a  rough  pair  of  gauntleted  gloves, 
and  with  her  trowel  she  was  digging  deep  holes  in 
the  earth,  which  she  filled  with  water  from  a  great 
green  can,  till  they  looked  like  a  mud  pie.  Then  she 
took  a  plant  from  her  basket,  turned  it  upside  down 
with  a  skilful  tap  of  her  trowel  against  the  sides  of  its 
pot,  and  out  it  dropped  into  the  hand  ready  for  it,  a 
little  compact  bunch  of  earth  enveloped  in  white  roots. 
These  roots  Katherine  pulled  apart  and  shook  out,  and 
then  plunged  the  whole  plant  into  the  place  prepared 
for  it,  pressing  down  the  oozy  earth  with  her  fingers, 
and,  after  a  new  baptism  of  water,  covering  it  with  a 
large  flower-pot  and  turning  to  the  next. 

"  They  won't  even  know  they  have  been  moved," 
she  said,  as  she  caught  Stephen's  gaze  fixed  upon  her 
handicraft  with  some  interest.  "  There,  that  is  the 
last!  Will  you  help  me  up,  please?  " 

She  held  out  a  hand  which  looked  very  white  and 
clean  when  she  pulled  off  its  rough  sheath.  "  Now, 
come  and  sit  in  the  shade  on  the  bench  a  moment  and 
I  can  really  attend  to  what  you  are  saying." 

He  responded  instantly.  "  It  is  that  darned  condi- 
tion. They  won't  let  me  off  without  a  special  exami- 
nation, and  I  don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  get  it  up, 
just  now  at  this  season  of  the  year.  They  seem  to  think 
I  have  nothing  else  to  do  with  my  time,  hang  them ! " 

Serious  feeling  of  any  kind  had  an  unfortunate  ef- 
fect on  Stephen.  It  was  never  enlarging,  and  often 
had  the  contrary  result  of  making  him  insignificant  or 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  57 

even  ridiculous.  When  his  brown  eyes  ceased  to  laugh 
they  often  lost  all  expression.  His  voice,  when  he  was 
depressed  or  aggrieved,  assumed  a  monotonous,  dron- 
ing tone,  which  deadened  interest.  His  manner,  when 
it  lost  its  lightness  and  gayety,  betrayed  an  almost  fatu- 
ous commonplace  of  nature. 

"  If  they  had  been  going  to  come  down  on  me  this 
way,  why  didn't  they  do  it  sooner,  when  it  wouldn't 
have  made  so  much  difference,"  he  wailed,  "  instead  of 
waiting  till  I  was  practically  sure  of  my  degree ;  and  dad 
coming  up  to  make  the  Chancellor's  address,  and 
mother  and  Sylvia.  Think  what  a  fool  I'll  look  if  I 
fail.  It  is  all  Merritt's  fault,  I  know.  He  never  could 
bear  me.  It  is  just  like  him  to  get  me  stuck  on  pur- 
pose." * 

"  No  one  can  stick  you,  if  you  work  hard  enough 
beforehand,"  said  Mrs.  Lawrence  anxiously;  but  Ste- 
phen knew  better. 

"  Can't  they,  though  ?  but  all  I  can  say  is  it  will 
be  dirty  mean  of  them  if  they  do." 

He  sat  staring  straight  in  front  of  him  with  blank, 
glassy  eyes,  pulling  his  little,  rough  mustache,  as  was 
a  habit  of  his  when  deeply  disturbed;  and  Katherine 
watched  him  gravely,  for  she  was  too  familiar  with 
the  petty  struggle  that  was  going  on  over  his  head  to 
be  quite  untouched  by  his  mood  of  anxious  foreboding. 

"  You  must  work  very  hard,"  she  said  at  last 
gently. 

He  looked  up.  "  But,  confound  it,  I  don't  want  to 
work  hard !  I  can't  work  hard !  I  can  think  of  nothing 
but  Sylvia." 


58  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Katherine  made  no  answer  beyond  a  little  reserved 
smile,  but  she  looked  at  him  very  kindly  as  he  sat  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  clasped  in  his  hands. 

"  When  I  think  that  in  a  month,  only  a  month," 
he  went  on,  his  voice  rising  into  a  little  squeal  of  de- 
spair, "  what  shall  I  do  when  I  have  to  go  away  and 
can't  see  her  every  day.  But  you  will  give  me  a  chance 
to  speak  to  her  before  I  go.  You  won't  go  back 
on  me  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  am  awfully  in  love  with  her,"  concluded  the 
young  fellow  earnestly.  "  I  never  imagined  I  was  ca- 
pable of  such  a  feeling,  such  a  real,  deep,  serious  feeling 
for  any  one.  I  shall  never  care  for  any  one  as  I  do  for 
Sylvia." 

"  But  you  know  you  have  thought  that  same  thing 
before  about  other  women,  Stephen,"  said  Katherine 
a  little  cruelly.  "  How  can  you  be  so  sure  that  it  is 
the  real  thing  this  time?  " 

He  clutched  his  hair  and  hung  down  his  head  in 
exaggerated  self-abasement.  "  Don't  rub  it  in,"  he 
pleaded,  "  it  is  mean,  for  you  would  never  have  known 
about  most  of  them  if  I  had  not  told  you  myself.  Be- 
sides, none  of  them  compared  to  Sylvia,  anyhow." 

She  laughed.  "  You  are  very  young,  Stephen,  to 
think  of  marrying." 

"  Oh,  father  wants  me  to  marry  early,"  said  Ste- 
phen blithely ;  "  he  thinks  nothing  steadies  a  man  more 
and  gives  him  such  a  sense  of  responsibility  as  marry- 
ing the  right  sort  of  girl." 

"  Very  true,  but  Sylvia  may  not  be  the  right  kind 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  59 

of  girl  for  you,"  answered  Katherine,  with  a  fine  little 
smile. 

He  replied  hotly,  as  at  a  charge  of  blame  against 
the  child  he  loved.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean ! 
I'd  like  to  know  who  could  be  better  ?  " 

Katherine  was  silent,  and  the  fine  irony  of  her  smile 
was  entirely  lost  upon  him. 

"  Of  course  she  is  pretty  young,"  he  began  again, 
"  but  not  as  young  as  you  were  yourself  when  you  were 
married." 

"  No,"  assented  Katherine,  her  eyes  fixed  musingly 
on  a  distant  clump  of  flame-colored  iris,  as  if  there 
could  be  nothing  in  the  world  more  beautiful  for  them 
to  rest  on. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  thinking  that  I  am  not  so  much 
of  a  man  as  Lieutenant  Lawrence  was,"  burst  out  Ste- 
phen jealously.  "  Well,  I  don't  suppose  I  am,  but  all 
the  same " 

But  Katherine  interrupted  almost  sharply.  "  It  is 
Sylvia  herself  I  am  thinking  of.  It  is  impossible  to 
compare  her  with  me,  Stephen ;  she  is  very  unlike  me. 
She  will  demand  more  from  life  than  I  ever  did.  She 
is  more  critical,  more  intolerant ;  she  would  not  be  very 
merciful  to  any  one  who  disappointed  her." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  disappoint  her,"  said  Stephen 
confidently.  "  She  should  have  everything  she  wanted." 

"  You  really  know  very  little  about  Sylvia."  Mrs. 
Lawrence  looked  at  him  suddenly,  with  a  little  teasing 
smile. 

"  Well,  I  like  that !  "  he  exclaimed  in  great  indigna- 
tion, "  when  I've  been  doing  nothing  but  think  of  her 


60  IN    THE    HOUSE 

for  nearly  two  years !  Two  years !  How's  that  for  con- 
stancy ?  We  like  the  same  things.  We  want  the  same 
kind  of  a  good  time.  She  doesn't  care  for  any  one  else, 
does  she  ?  "  He  looked  at  Katherine  anxiously,  though 
he  knew  there  was  no  one.  "  And  once  we  were  mar- 
ried she  should  have  anything  in  the  world  she  wanted. 
I  should  give  her  everything  she  asked  for." 

"  Yes,  but  suppose  she  asked  you  for  things  you 
couldn't  give  her  ?  " 

'•'  What  things  ?  "  asked  Stephen  vaguely. 

Katherine  shook  her  head.  She  saw  that  he  could 
not  understand  her. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  want  me  for  a  son-in-law," 
he  burst  out,  half-caressing,  half -threatening.  "  You 
don't  think  I  could  make  her  happy." 

Mrs.  Lawrence  smiled  back  at  him  without  reply- 
ing. She  had  the  gift  of  silence,  so  gentle,  yet  so  im- 
pervious, that  an  unobserving  person  often  took  it  for 
conversation  and  approval.  Besides,  Stephen  had  not 
taken  his  own  accusation  very  seriously. 

"  I  know  her  so  well,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  know 
just  what  will  please  her.  She  is  such  a  baby,  dear 
little  thing!  You'll  see  what  a  good  time  she  has  this 
evening.  Of  course  she  can  dance  up  and  down  on  me 
— but  the  other  fellows !  I  shall  arrange  that  her  card 
is  filled  by  the  best  men  in  the  fraternity.  There  is 
nothing  much  left  since  my  class  graduated,  but  some 
of  them  can  dance  well.  She  shall  have  all  the  flowers 
she  wants.  By  the  way,  have  those  roses  come  from 
Statesburg?  I  gave  special  orders.  Marechal  Niels — 
she  said  those  were  what  she  wanted." 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  61 

"  Yes,  they  came  this  morning.  Sylvia  will  thank 
you  herself.  She  was  very  much  excited  at  getting 
such  a  formal  offering  in  a  florist's  box." 

"Dear  little  thing!"  muttered  Stephen,  rising  at 
last  reluctantly  to  go  away.  "  You  are  sure  you  don't 
want  a  carriage  for  this  evening  ?  You  know  we  have 
arranged  for  one  to  fetch  all  the  chaperons.  Well — " 
as  she  shook  her  head,  "  it  is  only  a  step,  and  a  beauti- 
ful night.  I  don't  wonder  you  prefer  walking  to  going 
in  one  of  Hazard's  smelly  old  hacks.  I'll  be  along 
about  nine  to  walk  over  with  you.  By  the  way — "  he 
stopped,  reminded  of  a  lesser  grievance  he  had  almost 
forgotten  in  his  discussion  of  the  more  serious  annoy- 
ances come  to  threaten  his  peace  of  mind.  "  I  have  often 
told  you  before,  but  you  can  just  see  now  how  impos- 
sible it  is  to  do  anything  really  decent  in  this  college. 
You  know  how  I  have  been  working  to  make  this  ball 
a  success  for  the  fraternity — our  first  formal  entertain- 
ment in  the  new  house.  You  know  how  I  have  been 
trying  to  keep  the  fellows  from  asking  all  the  old 
frumps  they  knew  to  receive  with  you.  And  now,  at 
the  last  moment,  we  have  Mrs.  Cochran  on  our  hands." 

Katherine's  eyes  had  gone  to  rest  on  the  flame- 
colored  iris  again,  but  she  brought  them  back  to  Ste- 
phen with  a  sudden  start,  and  widening  of  the  lids, 
which  showed  the  pain  of  an  unpleasant  surprise. 

"  Mrs.  Cochran  ?  "  she  echoed  rather  faintly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen  crossly.  "  Of  course  we  had 
to  ask  her,  if  only  out  of  civility  to  Cocky — the  Pro- 
fessor, I  mean.  He  sent  us  a  thumping  check  for  ex- 
penses without  waiting  to  be  asked,  and  he  is  always 


62    IN    THE    HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS 

awfully  good  to  the  fraternity.  We  put  her  name 
among  the  other  patronesses  in  the  invitations,  but  we 
never  dreamed  she  would  come.  You  know  she  never 
goes  anywhere.  I  suppose  she  will  look  an  awful 
frump." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  answered  Katherine  gently. 
"  In  any  case,  you  must  see  that  the  other  men  are  very 
nice  to  her." 

She  drew  her  breath  softly  through  her  lips  in 
a  long,  slow  sigh,  but  Stephen  only  saw  her  smile 
"  Good-by." 

"  Good-by.  At  nine  o'clock  this  evening.  Don't 
forget !  "  he  shouted  back  at  her  as  he  shut  the  gate. 


VIII 

STEPHEN  was  prompt  to  the  moment  of  the  hour 
that  he  had  appointed  for  himself;  so  prompt, 
in  fact,  that  he  found  no  one  ready  for  him  but  Mrs. 
Lawrence,  who  was  standing  alone  in  the  flower-filled 
drawing-room  buttoning  her  long  gloves. 

"  Where  is  Sylvia  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  round  anx- 
iously. 

"  Gone  to  get  her  flowers  from  the  ice-box,  where 
Molly  put  them  to  keep  fresh." 

Even  as  she  replied,  she  appeared  in  the  parlor 
door,  a  radiant  vision,  her  garments  still  fluttering 
from  her  rapid  flight.  She  did  not  take  the  slightest 
notice  of  Stephen,  but  extended  toward  her  mother  a 
heavy  bunch  of  yellow  roses,  which  she  held  at  arm's 
length. 

"  They  smell  of  fish !  "  she  exclaimed  tragically. 

It  was  too  true.  Even  Katherine,  when  called  upon 
for  an  opinion,  could  not  deny  that  very  slightly,  but 
very  distinctly,  they  did  smell  of  fish. 

"  I'll  have  that  fellow's  life !  "  cried  Stephen. 

"  No,  no !  It  was  Molly !  I  found  them  in  the  ice- 
box, lying  close  beside  the  codfish  for  to-morrow." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  Sylvia  continued 
to  survey  and  smell  her  flowers  with  increasing  dis- 
favor. 

63 


64  IN   THE    HOUSE 

"  I  shan't  carry  them  at  all,"  she  said  at  last.  Ste- 
phen tried  in  vain  to  conceal  his  disappointment. 

"  Sylvia,"  said  Katherine  in  a  very  low  voice.  She 
was  answered  by  a  swift,  sidelong  glance  of  mischie- 
vous deprecation. 

"  Am  I  behaving  very  badly  ?  " 

Her  mother  answered  gravely,  "  Very  badly." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  replied,  not  too  seriously.  "  Ste- 
phen, thank  you  for  these  beautiful  roses.  It  was  very 
kind  of  you  to  think  of  me,  and  they  were  just  what 
I  wanted.  At  least,  they  aren't  quite,"  she  concluded 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone.  "  I  thought  they  were 
going  to  be  pink." 

Stephen  burst  into  a  great  roar  of  good-natured 
laughter.  "  Did  you  think  Marechal  Niels  were 
pink?" 

But  Katherine  did  not  even  smile,  and  Sylvia,  mis- 
trusting her  silence,  turned  to  her  coaxingly. 

"  Don't  be  cross  with  me,  mamma  dear,  now  that 
I  have  repented  and  Stephen  has  forgiven  me.  Please 
don't,  for  I  can't  begin  to  have  a  nice  time  as  long  as 
you  look  severe,  and  it  is  my  first  party,  and  quite  nec- 
essary that  I  should  enjoy  myself." 

Her  spirits  flew  up  like  champagne  as  soon  as  she 
saw  her  mother  betrayed  into  laughter,  and  she  had 
no  thought  but  delight  when  she  found  herself  walk- 
ing about  the  little  ballroom  on  Stephen's  arm,  child- 
ishly pleased  that  he  was  so  tall  and  good-looking, 
exhilarated  by  his  shouts  of  laughter  at  her  smallest 
sallies.  They  had  been  among  the  first  to  come,  but 
the  room  filled  up  almost  immediately.  The  semi- 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  65 

circle  of  arm-chairs  prepared  for  the  patronesses 
was  surrounded  by  an  ever-changing  group  of  new 
arrivals. 

Mrs.  Loomis,  blandly  middle-aged,  in  an  ample 
black  silk;  Mrs.  Chandler,  whose  thin,  aquiline  face 
and  spare  figure  still  showed  the  remnants  of  former 
beauty,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence.  These  three,  at  least, 
were  capable  of  satisfying  Stephen's  standard  of  re- 
quirement for  the  outer  appearance  of  the  ladies  whom 
the  Adelphics  might  wish  to  receive  their  guests  for 
them  that  evening.  And  the  other  chair  of  state  had 
been  prepared  in  vain. 

At  last  the  orchestra  ceased  to  tune  its  fiddles  and 
began  to  play  a  march.  All  the  couples  instantly  fell 
into  line  for  the  ceremony  with  which  the  college  dances 
were  usually  initiated.  Round  and  round  the  room 
went  the  small  procession,  through  various  simple 
evolutions,  Sylvia  and  Stephen  leading  the  way.  She 
had  never  before  felt  so  gracious  toward  him,  so  ap- 
preciative of  his  importance  in  the  enjoyment  of  an 
honor  for  which  he  alone  was  responsible,  and  she  was 
half-intoxicated  with  the  aroma  of  festival,  that  small 
but  important  adjunct  which  rises  like  an  effervescence 
out  of  the  most  commonplace  things  and  people,  when 
they  are  assembled  together  with  the  idea  of  enjoying 
themselves. 

Too  soon  the  grand  march  came  to  an  end,  and 
the  programmes  were  distributed,  and  then  Sylvia 
found  herself  standing  in  a  group  of  black-coated 
youths,  some  of  whom  she  knew,  some  whom  Stephen 
had  just  presented,  who  were  all  asking  to  write  their 


66  IN   THE    HOUSE 

names  on  her  card.  She  watched  its  progress  among 
them  with  dancing  eyes. 

"  Oh,  thank  you ! "  she  cried,  as  a  tall,  slender 
Senior  inscribed  his  initials  in  the  last  two  places  and 
returned  it  with  a  bow. 

Marjorie  Chandler  was  standing  near  her,  looking 
very  pretty,  though  somewhat  preoccupied  by  the  way 
her  sash  ends  hung  behind. 

"  Sylvia,"  she  whispered,  quite  scandalized,  "  don't 
say  '  Thank  you/  that  way.  It  sounds  too  grateful." 

"  But  I  was  grateful,"  returned  Sylvia  with  her 
gay  smile.  "  I  was  so  afraid  he  would  find  those  dances 
taken  on  his  card.  Now,  see,  there  isn't  a  space  left." 

Franklin  Field,  coming  up  at  this  moment,  was  re- 
ceived with  triumphant  assurance,  "  Not  one  left." 
She  could  not  feign  a  regret  she  did  not  feel.  Just 
now  she  was  riding  on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  a  pleas- 
ant place  if  one  wishes  only  to  enjoy  oneself,  and  to- 
night Sylvia  had  forgotten  that  she  had  ever  felt  the 
slightest  curiosity  about  any  other  sensation.  Noth- 
ing ever  happens  on  the  tops  of  the  waves.  One  has 
to  go  down  beneath  to  learn  the  strength  of  the  cur- 
rents, and  there  Sylvia  never  sank,  not  once  through 
the  whole  evening,  though  even  Marjorie  peeped  and 
found  things  underneath  once  or  twice;  girls  who  had 
difficulty  in  getting  partners,  some  of  the  young  hosts 
themselves,  who  looked  fagged  and  anxious  under  the 
responsibilities  of  their  position. 

Professor  Chandler,  looking  as  exquisitely  pink  and 
white  as  a  silk  powder-puff,  his  short,  curling,  gray 
hair  and  whiskers  perfectly  arranged  around  his  bland- 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  67 

ly  smiling  countenance,  came  and  stood  by  Mrs.  Law- 
rence, and  took  a  whimsical  pleasure  in  pointing  out 
the  places  where  the  recent  struggle  of  preparation 
for  the  festival  showed  loose  ends  of  imperfect  com- 
pletion. 

"  So  pretty !  "  He  pronounced  the  word  as  it  was 
spelled — with  an  "  e."  "  So  graceful,  yet  everything 
left  unfinished.  See ! "  he  made  her  peep  in  an  out 
of  the  way  corner,  hidden  out  of  sight,  where  a  great 
mass  of  fading  flowers,  broken  branches  of  lilacs,  pink 
honeysuckle,  and  the  white  fringe  tree,  lay  thrown  to- 
gether and  left  among  other  rubbish  to  die.  "  The 
poor,  pretty  flowers ! "  he  exclaimed  pityingly,  for 
many  of  them  came  out  of  his  own  garden.  "  And 
yet,  I  suppose,  it  was  necessary.  The  young  are  al- 
ways spendthrifts." 

"  Poor  boys ! "  said  Mrs.  Lawrence,  with  a  more 
personal  interest  in  the  matter,  as  she  thought  of  Tom, 
"  they  have  worked  so  hard,  and  some  of  them  look 
so  tired." 

"  Yes,  they  have  wasted  more  than  their  lilacs. 
Well,  they  can  afford  it.  It  is  only  old  age  that  needs 
to  husband  its  resources." 

"  Dear  Albion,  how  silly  you  are !  "  said  his  wife, 
drawing  near,  and  speaking  to  him  with  her  usual 
affectionate  depreciation,  which  he,  on  his  part,  never 
seemed  to  resent. — "  Kitty,  look  here  a  moment !  Do 
you  see  who  is  just  coming  in  ?  " 

Katherine  started  nervously,  looked,  and  was  si- 
lent. 

There  was  Miss  Mix,  her  ignoble,  good-natured 


68  IN    THE    HOUSE 

countenance  beaming  with  friendliness  for  all  the 
world ;  Mrs.  Brauer,  decorously  attired  in  a  high,  gray 
mohair  dress,  and  a  yellow  lace  fichu  disposed  around 
her  meagre  throat,  and  Mrs.  Cochran. 

All  the  faces  about  her  were  either  almost  silly  with 
youthfulness  or  else  emptied  of  all  significance  by  the 
hypnotizing  effect  of  the  whirling  crowd  of  dancers 
passing  and  repassing  in  endless  succession.  Only  that 
one  face  started  out  in  strange,  almost  shocking  con- 
trast to  the  others  in  its  brooding  intensity  of  expres- 
sion, its  watchful  self-consciousness,  ominous  sus- 
picion. It  was  difficult  to  guess  exactly  what  rank  and 
circumstance  had  produced,  only  some  tragedy  could 
finally  have  set  such  a  woman  down  in  such  surround- 
ings. She  still  showed  the  wreck  of  a  certain  kind  of 
beauty — rolling,  dark-brown  eyes,  whose  suffused  sur- 
face seemed  to  show  the  flesh  they  were  made  of; 
coarse,  curling  black  hair,  purple  cheeks,  a  redundant 
breast,  over  which  the  ill-fitting  black  silk  dress  she 
wore  was  strained  almost  to  bursting.  Yet  there  was 
a  kind  of  carelessness  and  stupidity  in  her  adornment 
which  seemed  to  show  the  virtuous  woman,  and  her 
manner,  in  its  brooding  defiance  and  self-restraint,  was 
not  without  a  certain  rough  dignity. 

The  little  group  stood  hesitating  a  moment,  unat- 
tended, unnoticed  by  their  young  hosts,  all  too  busy 
in  their  own  amusement  to  spare  time  for  ceremonious 
civility. 

"  Why  does  she  stay  over  there  by  the  door,  do 
you  suppose  ?  "  Mrs.  Chandler  continued  with  a  little 
nervous  giggle.  "  She  looks  quite  imposing.  Oh!  are 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  69 

you  really  going  over  to  speak  to  her  ?  Well,  I'll  come 
too." 

But  it  was  Miss  Mix  who  sustained  the  burden  of 
conversation  in  the  courtesies  that  followed. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  we  had  better  go  across  and  sit 
with  you  all;  I  am  afraid  of  the  draught  from  the 
window  for  Mrs.  Cochran.  I  had  the  greatest  work 
to  persuade  her  to  come,  and  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  if  she  caught  cold.  No,  we'll  just  stay  here, 
thank  you.  We  can  see  nicely,  and  it  is  not  so  near  the 
music.  We  are  only  going  to  stop  for  supper;  the 
professor  is  coming  over  then  to  take  her  home."  * 

At  this  mention  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Cochran,  for 
the  first  time,  raised  her  face  and  fairly  met  Katherine's 
rather  shrinking  glance  with  a  look  which  seemed  to 
unveil  something  in  the  depths  of  her  stupid,  savage 
soul ;  something  resentful,  suspicious,  and  yet  not  with- 
out a  certain  flaunting  triumph. 

"  Could  anybody  be  colder  than  you,  Kitty,  when 
you  don't  like  a  person  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Chandler  in  friend- 
ly amusement,  as  they  retraced  their  steps  across  the 
room. 

The  other  answered  rather  languidly :  "  I  did  not 
mean  to  be  cold;  I  am  afraid  I  have  an  unfortunate 
manner." 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all !  You  were  magnificent !  Noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  admirable  than  your  serene 
civility.  I  confess  I  was  terrified;  I  felt  my  knees  ber- 
come  as  water  under  me.  You  never  can  tell  what 
will  happen  next  with  such  a  woman,  and  really  she 
was  very  rude  to  us,  Kitty." 


70  IN   THE   HOUSE 

"  Perhaps  she  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  said  Kath- 
erine  after  a  moment's  pause.  "  It  is  quite  possible  she 
resented  our  manner  to  her  as  much  as  we  did  hers 
to  us." 

She  turned  with  evident  relief  to  answer  Tom,  who 
had  been  looking  for  her,  and  now  welcomed  her  re- 
appearance with  unconcealed  satisfaction. 

"  Mother,  may  I  speak  to  you  ?  Will  you  come 
with  me  for  a  moment  ?  " 

He  looked  worn  and  distracted,  and  his  face  was 
deeply  shadowed  with  that  ineffable  youthful  weari- 
ness, purifying,  transparent,  infinitely  touching,  which 
has  so  little  kinship  with  the  withering,  disfiguring 
exhaustion  of  maturer  years.  He  led  her  out  beyond 
the  circle  of  lights  and  dancing  to  the  back  veranda, 
where  Bob  Merton,  his  fellow-committeeman,  came  to 
join  them.  Both  lads  were  distressed  to  the  limits  of 
their  youthful  self-control.  Merton's  blue  eyes  were 
full  of  tears  under  their  fierce  eyebrows,  nor  was  the 
faint,  dark  shadow  of  Tom's  budding  mustache  able 
to  conceal  the  trembling  of  his  lips.  Another  freshman, 
Jimmy  Snell,  was  there  too,  lurking  somewhat  shame- 
facedly behind  the  open  door  of  the  pantry.  But  the 
others  quite  ignored  him;  and,  indeed,  his  turned-up 
nose  and  broad,  smiling  mouth  seemed  quite  out  of 
place  in  the  presence  of  their  tragic  intensity. 

"  O  mother !  "  Tom  began  at  once,  his  voice  break- 
ing a  little  in  his  hurry  and  agitation,  "  Bob  and  I  are 
in  such  a  scrape.  Perhaps  you  can  advise  us." 

"  A  scrape,  dear  Tom !  "  cried  Katherine  anxiously, 
"do  tell  me  about  it.  What  can  it  be?  " 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  71 

"  We  forgot  the  sugar  for  the  coffee,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  gasp  which  in  a  girl  would  have  been 
a  sob. 

Katherine  drew  a  breath  of  relief  so  sharp  that  it 
was  almost  painful.  Life  is  sometimes  so  hard,  so  en- 
tangled; its  demands  are  often  so  intricate,  so  cruelly 
impossible.  To  be  confronted  by  a  problem  still  so 
simple  that  it  can  be  solved  by  the  offer  of  a  few  herbs 
and  apples,  given  with  an  unstinting  hand,  is  such  an 
exquisite  surprise  that  it  touches  one's  self-control 
more  than  a  blow. 

"  It  is  my  fault !  "  said  Tom  desperately. 

"  No  more  yours  than  mine !  "  cried  Merton  in  loyal 
parenthesis. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  happened."  He  put  his  hand 
across  his  eyes  and  held  it  there  a  moment  with  an 
inherited  gesture,  as  he  went  on  speaking.  "  I  could 
have  sworn  I  gave  the  order,  but  it  hasn't  come." 

"  All  the  upper  classmen  will  laugh  at  us  when 
they  find  it  out,"  said  Bob  in  an  agony,  but  Tom  mut- 
tered under  his  breath : 

"  It  is  the  disgrace  to  the  fraternity  that  I  mind." 

"  Can't  you  advise  us,  Mrs.  Lawrence  ? "  said 
Jimmy  Snell,  encouraged  by  her  presence  to  venture 
out  from  behind  his  barricade,  his  face  drawn  into  the 
very  absurdity  of  seriousness. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  hurried  to  assure  them.  "  Why 
didn't  you  come  to  me  before?  Dear  Tom,  you  can 
get  all  the  sugar  you  want  if  you  run  across  by  the 
back  way  to  the  kitchen,  and  if  Molly  and  Lizzie  have 
gone  to  bed,  you  know  where  it  is  kept.  I  gave  an 


72  IN    THE    HOUSE 

order  to  have  the  canister  filled  only  yesterday,  so  I 
am  sure  there  is  plenty." 

Tom  turned  and  rushed  off  at  once  into  the  dark- 
ness, leaving  Bob  to  take  his  mother  back  to  the  ball- 
room. It  was  only  a  little  way  across  a  narrow  strip 
of  campus,  past  the  office  building  to  the  Dean's  gar- 
den gate,  and  then  by  the  back  way  into  the  kitchen. 
There,  unhindered  by  the  curtainless  darkness,  not 
waiting  to  light  the  lamp  on  the  table,  he  found  and 
loaded  himself  with  his  treasure  and  departed,  leaving 
every  closet  door  open.  A  moment  after  he  was  run- 
ning back  again  up  the  glimmering  white  path  leading 
to  the  fraternity  house.  The  goal  of  his  rapid  flight 
stood  very  near,  pouring  light  from  every  one  of  its 
lower  windows,  as  transparent  as  a  bubble  in  its  illu- 
mination from  inside,  when  he  nearly  ran  over  some 
one  going  the  same  way,  walking  very  quickly,  yet 
with  a  sort  of  rigidity  of  direction  which  did  not  turn 
out  for  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Tom  cried,  crashing  into  the 
shrubbery  which  bordered  the  path  in  his  hurry  to  get 
ahead  and  lose  no  time. 

Then  he  saw  that  the  tall,  dark  figure  was  Wilfred 
Cochran. 

"  Good  Lord,  he  is  drunk !  "  said  the  boy  to  him- 
self, and  hesitated  and  almost  turned  back  in  the  fear 
that  took  possession  of  him.  But  then  he  hurried  on 
again.  Some  of  the  other  fellows  must  see  to  that. 

"  I  can't  do  everything,"  he  muttered  to  himself 
in  a  sort  of  helpless  apology. 

He  returned  to  a  scene  of  growing  confusion  in  the 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  73 

kitchen  of  the  fraternity  house.  Supper  was  already 
being  served  in  the  ballroom;  the  place  was  invaded 
with  boys  demanding  food  for  their  guests.  The 
old  colored  woman  they  had  hired  for  this  emergency 
was  growing  more  and  more  excited  by  the  diffi- 
culties and  deficiencies  of  her  position.  Tom  stayed 
only  long  enough  to  supply  her  with  the  belated  sugar 
for  the  coffee  and  then  hurried  off  to  the  ballroom  to 
find  Marjorie  Chandler,  whom  he  had  engaged  for 
supper.  He  swept  her  away  to  a  cool  corner  by  one 
of  the  windows,  where  Bob  Merton  and  one  of  the 
Loomis  girls  were  saving  a  seat  for  him  beside  Ste- 
phen and  Sylvia.  It  was  his  reward  for  past  exertions 
that  Bob  should  go  for  the  supper.  Tom  had  at  last 
come  out  into  the  light  places  of  the  earth  and  was 
preparing  to  enjoy  himself. 

He  cast  one  satisfied  glance  about  the  gayly  lighted 
room,  that  he  might  assure  himself  at  last  of  the  brill- 
iant success  of  his  fraternity's  last  social  effort.  Then 
he  looked  again,  more  anxiously,  here  and  there,  for 
he  had  suddenly  become  conscious  of  a  strange,  hidden 
agitation  somewhere  in  the  midst  of  the  rustling,  chat- 
tering throng  around  him.  Among  the  merry,  freshly 
tinted  faces  of  the  groups  at  supper  round  the  room, 
here  and  there  one  stood  out  unsmiling,  shadowed  with 
a  kind  of  expectancy,  an  almost  strange  attention  and 
suspense,  all  turned  in  the  same  direction. 

"  O  Tom,"  said  Marjorie  in  his  ear,  "  look  at 
Professor  Cochran!  Isn't  it  shocking?  Some  of  you 
ought  to  make  him  go  home." 

But  Tom  had  already  caught  sight  of  that  tall, 


74  IN   THE   HOUSE 

rigid  figure  standing  against  the  wall,  silent  and  mo- 
tionless, staring,  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing,  into  the 
blank  space  before  him.  There  was  a  kind  of  empti- 
ness near  him,  as  if  people  had  withdrawn  themselves, 
perhaps  in  protest,  perhaps  from  a  certain  alarm,  for 
in  spite  of  his  absolute  stillness  there  was  something 
formidable  in  his  expression  as  he  stared  out  straight 
in  front  of  him,  his  eyebrows  sharply  raised  and  drawn 
together,  as  if  in  a  last  desperate  effort  to  steady  his 
swimming  senses.  On  his  lips  there  was  a  strange, 
painful  smile,  hardly  a  smile  indeed,  rather  an  ago- 
nized muscular  contraction,  which  seemed  to  draw  his 
face  into  a  mask  of  tragic,  poignant  madness.  His 
eyes  saw  nothing  of  what  they  looked  at,  but  one 
shrank  involuntarily  from  the  place  where  they  rested, 
as  if  at  any  instant  they  might  wake  to  consciousness, 
wild  with  question,  or  laughter,  or  anger,  or  despair. 
A  little  distance  away,  among  her  friends,  Tom  saw 
Mrs.  Cochran  in  agitated  palpitation,  moving  vaguely 
to  and  fro  behind  the  two  poor  women  who  were  bend- 
ing over  her  trying  to  restrain  her.  He  was  conscious, 
too,  of  Mrs.  Chandler,  with  her  hand  on  her  husband's 
arm,  her  small,  dark  head,  with  its  haggard  features, 
moving  to  and  fro,  as  she  gesticulated  earnestly,  evi- 
dently exhorting  the  bland  little  man  to  some  action; 
to  avert  something  which  might  become  humiliating, 
unmanageable,  scandalous;  while  he  was  evidently  re- 
assuring her,  and  Colonel  Loomis,  who  had  come  in 
lately  to  look  after  his  wife,  stood  by,  also  quiescent, 
though  big  and  ominous  with  disapproval.  Among 
the  lads  who  saw,  too,  here  and  there  one  moved  rest- 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  75 

lessly  and  uncertainly.  "  Let  him  alone,"  whispered 
others,  "  he  is  not  doing  anything.  If  we  try  to  speak 
to  him,  he  may  make  a  row." 

Marjorie  looked  on  with  great,  ruminating,  brown 
eyes,  rounded  into  shocked  curiosity;  but  Sylvia  saw 
nothing  at  all;  she  was  busy  snapping  rose  leaves 
against  the  backs  of  Stephen's  hands,  and  did  not 
even  notice  when  Tom  sprang  to  his  feet  and  walked 
away  across  the  room.  He  could  not  help  it;  some- 
thing must  be  done — if  by  no  one  else,  then  by  him — 
to  save  the  fraternity  dance  from  painful  interruption, 
to  rescue  an  Adelphic  from  open  humiliation. 

A  quiver  of  expectancy  went  through  those  who 
were  looking  on,  as  they  saw  him  approach  the  silent, 
stony  figure  against  the  wall.  He  laid  his  hand  on  its 
arm.  Wilfred  Cochran  stirred  slightly  and  bent  his 
anguished  eyes  on  Tom  with  a  growing  effort  of  at- 
tention. Then  there  was  an  almost  audible  sigh  of 
relief  throughout  the  room,  for  his  face  suddenly 
changed  and  melted ;  his  smile  ceased  to  be  formidable, 
became  foolish,  harmless,  merely  drunken.  He  let 
Tom  lead  him  away  quietly  out  into  the  darkness  be- 
yond. Before  any  one  began  to  notice  her  again,  Mrs. 
Cochran  was  gone  after  her  husband. 

The  whole  affair  had  taken  a  very  few  moments. 
The  murmur  of  laughter  and  gay  movement  had  hardly 
been  diminished;  it  now  reasserted  itself  with  a  burst 
of  almost  turbulent  merriment  which  quite  drowned 
the  undercurrent  of  confused  whisperings,  shocked  crit- 
icism, and  explanations;  but  the  undercurrent  per- 
sisted, running  stronger  and  stronger  among  the  older 


76  IN   THE   HOUSE 

people  beneath  the  foam  of  youthful  laughter,  stealthily 
at  first,  in  the  memory  of  old  resentments  between  the 
town  and  the  college  whose  dignity  Cochran  had  com- 
promised. Even  among  the  faculty  general  indigna- 
tion against  him  had  to  assume  a  strained  and  cautious 
expression  in  the  thought  of  the  Dean's  unwise  cham- 
pionship, in  the  presence  of  the  Dean's  daughter.  As 
long  as  she  sat  there  among  them  in  a  sort  of  resolute, 
unsmiling  composure,  they  had  to  keep  their  eager 
tongues  in  check.  But  she  went  at  last,  effecting  her 
retreat  with  a  careful  watchfulness  which  ran  no  risks 
of  invasions  upon  their  self-restraint. 

"  O  mamma,  so  soon ! "  cried  Sylvia  in  dismay, 
as  she  looked  up  from  the  midst  of  the  gay  party  still 
lingering  over  their  ice-cream  in  one  of  the  windows, 
and  saw  her  mother  standing  beside  her  on  Professor 
Chandler's  arm. 

Tom  sprang  to  his  feet  at  once,  but  Stephen 
joined  Sylvia  in  a  clamor  of  reproach  and  entreaty 
for  just  one  more  waltz,  just  once  more  round  the 
room. 

"  Come  along,  Sylvia,  don't  be  a  pig !  "  said  Tom 
gruffly.  "  Don't  you  see  that  mother  is  tired  ?  " 

But  Sylvia  still  exclaimed :  "  O  mamma,  the  music 
is  just  beginning  again !  Just  one  more  dance !  " 

"  No,"  answered  Mrs.  Lawrence  with  a  sort  of  un- 
yielding, expressionless  gentleness,  which  permitted  no 
appeal. 

Tom  and  Stephen  took  them  home.  They  let  them- 
selves in  carefully,  so  as  not  to  waken  the  sleeping 
household. 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  77 

"  Mamma,"  whispered  Sylvia,  "  may  Stephen  come 
in,  too,  and  have  some  milk  ?  He  likes  milk,  you  know, 
and  there  is  a  big  pitcher  of  it  in  the  ice-box." 

But  Katherine  was  obdurate,  and  the  youth  sub- 
mitted, with  what  grace  he  might,  to  be  sent  away 
at  the  door,  lingering  a  few  moments  for  some  last 
words  about  a  dying  rose  for  his  buttonhole. 

The  others  entered  the  shuttered  darkness  of  the 
house. 

"  It  went  off  pretty  well,  on  the  whole.  Don't  you 
think  so,  mother,  considering  it  was  the  first  in  the  new 
house  ?  "  asked  Tom  anxiously. 

He  could  only  hear  her  voice.  "  Very  well,  indeed, 
dear.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  great  success."  But  he 
felt  her  catch  hold  of  him  and  lean  against  him,  hiding 
her  face  against  his  shoulder. 

"  O  Tom,  my  little  boy!  my  big  son!"  she  whis- 
pered with  a  long,  sobbing  breath. 

He  put  both  arms  round  her  and  bent  over  her, 
half-ashamed,  for  he  thought  she  was  laughing  at  him, 
but  loyally  still. 

"  It  is  all  right,  mother,  I  don't  mind ;  and  I  sup- 
pose I  did  make  an  awful  ass  of  myself  about  that 
sugar." 

Sylvia,  flying  after  them,  having  finally  dismissed 
Stephen,  found  her  still  in  his  arms. 

"  O  mamma,  you  love  Tom  best ! "  she  cried  in- 
dignantly. 

Katherine  disengaged  herself  and  stood  looking  at 
them  both  in  the  half-light,  surprised  for  the  moment 
into  a  certain  wan  amusement  at  the  two  young  creat- 


78    IN    THE    HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS 

ures,  facing  each  other  in  such  hot  defiance  after  the 
shock  of  Sylvia's  outburst  of  reproach. 

"  Are  you  never  going  to  be  anything  but  a  child, 
Sylvia?"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice 
that  was  sharper  than  laughter. 


IX 


FRANKLIN  FIELD,  the  blue-eyed  tutor,  sat  on 
the  window-sill  in  the  third-story  back  room, 
which  for  the  time  he  called  his  own,  in  Miss  Mix's 
boarding-house.  The  outlook  was  not  unpleasing,  even 
though  it  commanded  nothing  more  than  back  gar- 
dens, kitchen  entrances,  and  dilapidated  sheds,  for  the 
horse-chestnuts  were  in  bloom  to  their  highest  tips,  and 
the  vine  was  everywhere  freshly,  beautifully  green — 
the  vine,  in  other  lands  so  carefully  and  reverently 
trained  and  fostered,  debased  here  into  all  sorts  of  un- 
worthy services,  as  a  screen  for  wood-piles  and  gar- 
bage heaps,  or  a  rough  fence  marking  the  limits  of  the 
kitchen  garden  and  the  clothes  yard.  The  northwest 
exposure  gave  to  Franklin,  sitting  in  the  window,  a 
wide  expanse  of  blue,  sunset  sky,  against  which  the 
needle-like  wooden  spires  of  the  little  town  stood  out 
dark  brown  above  the  clustering  trees. 

The  room  itself  was  large  and  low  and  dingy, 
tainted  with  the  smell  of  long-dead  tobacco  smoke, 
which  seemed  to  have  become  a  part  of  its  very  walls ; 
furnished  in  the  double  capacity  of  bedroom  and 
study,  but  with  a  simplicity  and  meagreness  that  left 
it  very  empty.  There  was  a  little  bookcase  in  one 
corner,  where  rows  of  college  text-books  were  here 
and  there  enlivened  by  yellow-covered  novels,  from 

79 


8o  IN   THE   HOUSE 

which,  however,  Franklin's  position  as  tutor  of  French 
and  German  in  Littel  College  withdrew  all  compro- 
mising significance.  The  study  table,  an  ugly,  service- 
able affair,  with  a  bare  pine  top,  four  strong,  brown 
legs,  and  a  deep  drawer,  was  loaded  with  papers  and 
exercise  books,  the  first  fruits  of  the  senior  examina- 
tion, which  antedated  the  lower  classes  by  nearly  three 
weeks. 

In  the  depths  of  a  dingy,  chintz-covered  chair,  be- 
tween the  window  and  the  table,  sat  Professor  Brown- 
ell,  the  head  of  the  classical  department,  who  was  mak- 
ing the  tutor  an  afternoon  call,  and  taking  his  ease,  as 
far  as  is  possible  with  a  man  who  doesn't  smoke,  while 
discussing  at  length  the  subject  which  had  absorbed 
all  others  among  the  faculty  since  Wilfred  Cochran's 
unfortunate  appearance  at  the  fraternity  dance  two 
days  before. 

"  Well,  he  has  done  for  himself  now.  Even  the 
Dean  can't  support  him  any  longer  after  this,"  said 
Brownell,  with  a  sort  of  buoyant  satisfaction  in  an 
indisputable  fact,  which  did  not  necessarily  mean  spe- 
cial animosity  toward  the  person  under  discussion,  for 
he  added  almost  immediately : 

"  Poor  Cochran !  Somehow  I  always  liked  Cochran, 
though  there  is  no  denying  he  had  a  darned  unpleasant 
way  of  saying  things  when  he  felt  like  it.  One  had  al- 
ways to  remind  oneself  that  he  was  nobody's  enemy  as 
much  as  his  own.  I  hear  he  has  gone  off  again — not 
shown  up  since  Friday  night." 

Franklin  sat  listlessly  leaning  against  the  window 
frame,  his  head  bent  forward,  a  little  on  one  side,  his 


OE   HER   FRIENDS  81 

eyes,  which  were  singularly  blue  and  clear,  fixed  on 
the  tops  of  the  fruit  trees  in  the  next  garden.  He  was 
bored,  melancholy,  indifferent,  for  he  never  forgot  to 
consider  himself  an  alien  amid  circumstances  and  actors 
from  which  he  would  fain  hold  himself  aloof.  So  he 
answered  the  inquiry  with  a  kind  of  plaintive  patience, 
since  he  could  hardly  deny  some  knowledge  on  a  sub- 
ject of  which  Miss  Mix  was  high  priestess,  and  her 
dining-room  a  centre  of  information.  Cochran  had 
indeed  disappeared,  and  no  one,  not  even  his  wife,  had 
the  least  idea  of  his  whereabouts. 

"  It  is  about  the  worst  thing  that  could  have  hap- 
pened for  the  Dean,"  said  Brownell  meditatively. 

"  Why  the  Dean  ?  "  asked  Franklin,  betrayed  into 
some  surprise. 

"  Well,  you  see,  if  he  were  anywhere  he  could  be 
got  at,  some  of  the  Dean's  friends  might  be  able  to  use 
their  influence  with  him  to  make  him  send  in  his  resig- 
nation, in  which  case  the  trustees  need  do  nothing  but 
accept  it.  But  now  that  he  has  gone  off  this  way  and 
left  everything  at  loose  ends,  the  whole  matter  must 
come  up  for  action  at  the  next  meeting,  and  the  old 
Dean  may  have  to  hear  things  said  he  will  find  hard 
to  swallow.  You  know  how  near  he  sailed  to  the  wind 
already,  when  he  insisted  on  retaining  Cochran  against 
the  sense  of  the  whole  board  last  June.  All  this  gives 
a  mighty  good  handle  to  the  other  side."  Brownell 
flung  his  head  back  against  his  chair  and  began  to  beat 
a  tattoo  upon  the  arms  with  his  restless  fingers. 

"What  other  side?"  murmured  Franklin,  con- 
scious of  a  faint  anxiety,  for  he  could  not  help  remem- 


82  IN   THE    HOUSE 

bering  that  his  tutorship,  despised  indeed,  but  necessary 
for  his  daily  bread,  had  come  to  him  by  one  of  those 
irregular,  high-handed  appointments  by  which  the 
Dean  was  always  overriding  the  rights  of  the  trustees 
and  the  wishes  of  the  faculty,  and  might  be  very  much 
endangered  by  the  existence  of  another  side,  if  it  should 
happen  to  be  unfriendly  to  him.  He  looked  up  and 
caught  Brownell's  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  a  sort  of 
careful  scrutiny. 

"  Of  course,  you  wouldn't  be  likely  to  know  much 
about  it,"  said  the  other  man  with  deliberation.  "  The 
Dean  has  kept  you  very  closely  in  his  own  interest. 
We  haven't  cared  to  say  anything  before  you  that  we 
were  not  ready  to  have  go  back  to  him." 

Franklin  reddened  a  little,  for  he  thought  that  the 
other  might  be  wishing  to  insult  him,  but  Brownell's 
manner  showed  nothing  but  friendliness  as  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  Still,  I  think  it  is  just  as  well  for  you  to  know 
that  the  Dean  is  not  nearly  as  strong  a  man  in  the 
college  as  he  used  to  be.  There  are  plenty  of  men  on 
the  faculty,  in  the  alumni,  and  higher  yet,  too,  who  are 
beginning  to  think  that  he  has  lost  his  grip,  and 
needs  to  be  watched ;  needs  a  coadjutor,  in  fact ;  a  man 
who  could  gradually  assume  all  the  practical  running 
of  the  college,  even  if  the  old  fellow  were  retained  in  a 
kind  of  nominal  supremacy;  even  if  he  were  let  to 
think  he  was  still  doing  it  all." 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  rather  difficult  ?  "  asked  Frank- 
lin cautiously.  "  The  Dean  is  a  very  old  man ;  I  have 
no  doubt  he  has  lost  a  good  deal  of  his  original  force 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  83 

of  mind,  still,  even  now,  he  seems  to  me  very  far — " 
he  faltered  and  hesitated  with  his  soft,  deprecating 
manner,  surprised,  and  really  offended  at  what  seemed 
to  him  a  sort  of  indignity  to  his  mother's  kind  old 
friend,  yet  afraid  to  commit  himself  too  soon  against 
what  might  be  the  winning  side  if  it  came  to  a  final 
struggle  between  the  Dean  and  his  faculty. 

"  Well,  that  depends,"  said  Brownell,  kicking  his 
legs  about.  "  He  may  find  there  is  nothing  left  for 
him  to  do  but  to  grin  and  bear  it.  I  have  reason  to 
know  that  there  are  plans  on  foot — of  course  it  is 
being  kept  very  quiet." 

"  Then  why  are  you  telling  me  ?  "  said  Franklin 
in  his  heart,  but  he  kept  the  words  from  his  lips,  for 
he  felt  that  it  might  be  to  his  interest  to  know  what 
was  being  kept  very  quiet,  if  for  any  reason  Brownell 
should  happen  to  tell  him. 

"  The  trustees  are  becoming  convinced  that  the  col- 
lege needs  heroic  measures  to  put  it  on  its  feet  again," 
that  gentleman  went  on,  relapsing  into  cautious  gener- 
alities. 

"  The  Dean  himself  is  a  trustee,"  murmured  Frank- 
lin, his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  blue,  sunset  sky. 

"  Of  course !  of  course !  and  he  has  strong  friends 
on  the  board,"  answered  Brownell  impatiently.  "  A 
lot  of  hide-bound  old  fossils  who  take  all  he  tells  them 
for  gospel  truth.  But  there  are  some  new  men  who 
will  listen  to  reason,  if  they  ever  hear  it;  some  of  the 
later  appointments.  We  have  canvassed  them  rather 
carefully.  Of  course  Porter  is  all  on  the  Dean's  side. 
He  took  the  place  of  his  father,  old  Judge  Porter,  who 


84  IN   THE   HOUSE 

thought  he  owned  the  whole  college,  except  what  be- 
longed to  the  Lawrences,  uncle  and  nephew.  The 
Porters  were  great  people  about  here  in  the  past,  I 
am  told,  but  the  college  was  cheated  out  of  the  legacy 
the  old  man  left  it,  for  the  estate  turned  out  worth  just 
nothing  at  all,  frittered  away  by  bad  investments;  the 
son  was  in  my  class,  lives  in  New  York,  and  is  a  rich 
man  now,  but  I  am  willing  to  bet  we  will  never  see 
any  of  his  money.  He  was  put  on  the  board  ten  years 
ago  by  the  Dean's  influence,  but  he  never  comes  to  the 
meetings  or  takes  any  interest.  As  for  the  other  men, 
except  Dullas — you  know  how  keen  the  Dean  is  to 
keep  Dullas  in  a  good  humor — they  seem  a  pretty  de- 
cent set,  quite  ready  to  see  reason  if  they  only  get  a 
chance." 

Brownell  broke  off  suddenly  and  cast  a  scrutinizing 
glance  at  the  youthful  figure,  with  its  fair,  bent  head 
and  listless  attitude,  outlined  against  the  sky.  Then 
he  began  again  on  a  new  line. 

"  Of  course  you  came  here  bound  hand  and  foot 
to  the  Dean's  interests;  you  owed  him  your  appoint- 
ment. Well,  I  guess  he  has  made  you  pay  for  it,"  and 
the  professor  laughed  rather  rudely. 

Franklin  winced.  There  were  a  number  of  men  in 
the  college  who  went  about  the  Dean's  business,  fur- 
nishing their  quota  of  unspecified  service  in  return  for 
past  benefits  and  obligations — the  Dean's  henchmen 
they  were  called,  even  by  the  Dean's  friends,  this  es- 
pecial weakness  of  the  eager,  unscrupulous  old  autocrat 
being  well  known  to  all  the  little  world  he  lived  among. 

One  of  the  Dean's  henchmen!    There  could  be  no 


OE   HER   FRIENDS  85 

other  meaning  to  the  professor's  burst  of  contemptuous 
laughter. 

"  I  wish  you  knew  Merritt  better,"  Brownell  con- 
cluded, relapsing  into  gravity  again.  "  I  am  afraid  you 
are  rather  prejudiced  against  him  now,  but  I  tell  you 
the  more  you  see  him  the  more  satisfied  you  will  be 
that  he  is  the  man  to  pull  this  college  out  of  the  hole 
it  is  sunk  in.  He  may  not  cut  any  ice  with  the  swells 
who  turn  up  their  noses  at  their  old  classmates,  and 
have  grown  too  fine  to  send  their  sons  to  their  own 
alma  mater,  but  he  holds  the  younger  alumni  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  It  is  the  new  blood  of  the  college 
that  sooner  or  later  is  going  to  make  itself  felt.  The 
trustees  are  beginning  to  understand  already ;  they  will 
understand  better  when  they  see  the  faculty  arrayed  as 
a  unit  in  their  demands." 

"  Are  they  arrayed  as  a  unit  ?  "  asked  Franklin, 
wondering  a  little  where  he  himself  stood  in  the  align- 
ment. 

"  Practically  they  are,"  replied  the  other  with  con- 
fidence. "Of  course  there  is  some  dead  wood  on 
the  other  side;  the  Dean's  old  friends;  that  old  fool, 
Chandler,  for  instance ;  but  the  workers — the  men  with 
futures  before  them!  That  is  the  reason  I  am  talking 
to  you  this  afternoon.  It  is  Merritt  who  proposed  it. 
'  He  is  too  good  a  fellow  to  be  left  out.  We  want 
him  too,'  he  said  to  me,  *  and  I  propose  to  give  him 
a  chance.' ' 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Franklin  politely. 
"  How  does  he  propose  to  give  me  a  chance?  " 

He  was  amused  and  surprised  to  find  how  flattered 


86  IN   THE   HOUSE 

he  felt  that  Merritt,  the  blatant,  the  insolent,  Merritt, 
who  had  insulted  him  on  every  possible  occasion  of 
their  past  intercourse,  laughing  at  him,  making  his 
work  with  his  students  ten  times  more  difficult  by  his 
open  derision,  should  accord  him  now  these  belated  ex- 
pressions of  regard.  Yet  he  listened  intently  as 
Brownell  went  on  talking,  for  he  had  begun  sometimes 
to  feel  a  dreary  disgust  for  the  creed  he  had  learned 
from  his  mother,  so  full  of  impossible  virtues  and  un- 
suspected meannesses,  where  reverence  and  gratitude 
went  hand  in  hand  with  loss  of  self-respect  and  a  state 
of  servile  dependence.  The  other  side,  little  as  he  ad- 
mired them,  small  as  was  the  sympathy  which  could 
exist  between  him  and  their  methods  of  action  and 
expression,  might  nevertheless  be  able  to  offer  him  op- 
portunities for  self-advancement  more  satisfying  to  a 
man's  pride  than  any  he  had  ever  gained  from  the 
Dean. 

The  other  side  was  evidently  not  lacking  in  virility 
and  audacity  of  conception.  Brownell  spoke  of  a  letter 
which  Merritt  had  been  preparing — a  sort  of  protest 
from  the  faculty  directly  to  the  trustees. 

"  How  else  can  they  know  how  affairs  are  being 
run  here  ?  "  he  asked  with  some  justice. 

It  was  to  be  sent,  signed,  to  every  one  of  the  trustees 
individually,  with  the  request  that  he  should  consider 
its  contents  before  the  June  meeting. 

"Of  course  the  more  names  we  have,  the  better," 
said  Brownell  frankly.  "  Not  that  we  care  a  snap  for 
old  Chandler's,  or  little  Billy  Pepper's.  In  fact,  those 
we  would  rather  leave  off  than  on.  But  yours  is  a  dif- 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  87 

ferent  matter ;  there  is  always  work  for  a  man  like  you 
on  this  college  faculty,  and  we  would  like  to  keep  you. 
There  is  to  be  a  meeting  at  my  house  this  evening  of 
the  protestants — that  is  what  we  call  ourselves.  If 
you  come  it  won't  commit  you  to  anything,  but  you 
will  see  exactly  what  our  demands  are." 

Franklin  hesitated.  "What  time?"  he  asked  at 
last,  faintly. 

He  had  never  felt  the  necessity  of  taking  any  but 
a  passive  part  in  the  endless  bickerings  of  the  faculty 
with  their  president,  and  when  he  suddenly  found  him- 
self personally  involved,  his  position  in  Littel  College 
jeopardized  or  assured  by  the  side  he  took,  he  felt  him- 
self shaken  by  the  inevitable  attraction  that  all  weak 
natures  feel  to  an  irrevocable  decision,  not  realizing 
that  to  a  weak  nature  no  decision  is  ever  irrevocable, 
but  must  be  made  and  remade  with  endless  anguish 
until  fate  itself  steps  in  and  decides  by  removing  all 
alternatives. 

The  sound  of  the  tea  bell  broke  gratefully  upon 
their  conversation. 

"  Won't  you  stay  to  supper  ?  "  said  the  young  tutor 
in  his  soft,  plaintive  voice. 

But  Brownell  declared  that  he  must  go,  that  he 
was  expected  at  home.  He  went  clattering  downstairs 
in  great  haste,  on  his  way  to  his  wife  and  imprudently 
large  family,  stopping  at  the  door  a  moment  to  call 
back: 

"  Eight  o'clock  sharp,  remember !  We  shall  expect 
you!" 


X 


MISS  MIX  sat  at  the  head  of  her  own  table  be- 
hind the  silver  tea  kettle  and  the  piles  of  old 
blue  cups  which  had  been  her  mother's.  She  had  lived 
all  her  life  in  this  comfortable,  roomy  old  house,  with 
its  Greek  portico  and  fluted  wooden  pillars,  and  had 
sat  in  the  same  place  at  every  meal  since  her  mother 
died  and  left  her,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  to  take  care  of  her 
father  —  Littelton's  family  doctor. 

For  thirty  years  she  had  poured  out  cups  of  fra- 
grant tea  from  the  same  Chinese  teapot.  In  the  old 
days  it  was  her  father  and  brothers  who  had  drank, 
and  sent  back  for  more;  but  as  time  went  on  their 
places  had  been  filled  by  a  heterogeneous  assemblage 
of  old  friends  or  the  friends  of  old  friends.  A  word 
from  the  Dean,  for  his  mother's  sake,  had  given  Frank- 
lin the  entrance  into  this  selected  society,  which  only 
strangers  to  its  evolution  ever  called  a  boarding-house. 
But  once  received,  he  had  become  one  of  Miss  Mix's 
prime  favorites,  and  sat  on  her  left,  in  the  very  shadow 
of  the  tea-tray,  where  she  asked  after  his  health  with 
motherly  interest  at  every  meal,  and  confided  in  him 
so  much  information  concerning  her  own  affairs  and 
those  of  other  people  that  he  was  proportionately  sur- 
prised, when  he  took  his  place  at  the  tea-table  some- 
what later  than  usual,  to  find  a  lady  of  whose  advent 
he  had  not  been  forewarned  —  a  lady  not  young,  but 

88 


IN    THE    HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS     89 

still  very  young  looking,  and  especially  interesting  to 
Franklin  because  bearing  many  of  the  signs  and  hall- 
marks of  the  wider  world  from  which  he  felt  himself 
an  exile. 

He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  chair, 
hesitating  before  he  took  his  seat,  till  Miss  Mix  turned 
round  and  saw  him. 

"  Oh,  here  is  Mr.  Field  at  last !  "  she  cried.  "  You 
are  late,  Mr.  Field.  I  was  beginning  to  think  you  had 
deserted  us.  Well,  it  would  have  been  your  own  loss, 
for  here  is  my  old  friend  Miss  Ethel  Porter,  dropped 
down  upon  us  unexpectedly,  who  says  she  knows  your 
mother  and  has  a  message  for  you  from  her." 

The  new-comer  smiled  upon  him  cordially. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  your  mother  only  the  other  day,  and 
she  told  me  I  should  find  you  here,  but  I  think  I  should 
have  recognized  you  anywhere  as  Emily  Franklin's 
son.  You  are  the  image  of  her;  besides,  I  remember 
seeing  you  once,  I  won't  say  how  many  years  ago.  You 
were  still  a  very  little  boy,  just  promoted  to  knicker- 
bockers, so  I  shall  forgive  you  if  you  confess  to  hav- 
ing forgotten  me." 

"  I  still  wear  knickerbockers,"  said  Franklin,  in 
his  soft,  somewhat  plaintive  voice,  "  as  I  can  show  you 
if  you  ever  do  me  the  honor  to  play  tennis  with  me; 
and  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be  anything  but  a  very 
little  boy,"  he  concluded,  in  deprecating  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  small  stature. 

Miss  Porter  looked  at  him  a  moment  intently  with 
her  bright  brown  eyes.  She  had  a  spirited  head,  which 
she  held  with  graceful  erectness,  an  almost  girlish 


90  IN    THE   HOUSE 

figure,  and  a  fresh  young  voice.  Only  her  gray  hair 
betrayed  her  as  having  entered  upon  that  tableland  of 
preserved  youth,  formerly  known  as  middle  age,  where 
American  women  know  so  well  how  to  retain  them- 
selves that  they  descend  from  it  into  the  grave  more 
easily  than  into  obvious  decrepitude. 

"  I  can  see  at  a  glance  that  you  don't  belong  here," 
she  said  to  him,  laughing.  "  And  I  am  not  so  sure 
I  like  to  find  you  here.  I  don't  say  you  may  not  be 
an  improvement,  but  I  am  conservative.  I  can't  get 
over  the  shock  of  seeing  a  person  of  your  years  on  the 
faculty  of  Littel  College.  But  tell  me  how  you  like  it. 
Of  course  you  know  everybody — the  Chandlers  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  have  been  most  kind  to  me.  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  dancing  with  Miss  Marjorie  at  the  Adel- 
phic  dance  the  other  night." 

"  Marjorie  Chandler  grown  old  enough  to  go  to 
dances!  The  last  time  I  was  here  I  remember  spend- 
ing an  afternoon  dressing  a  doll  for  her  and  the  little 
Lawrence  girl — Sylvia,  of  course.  When  did  there 
ever  fail  to  be  a  Sylvia  Lawrence  ?  How  has  she  turned 
out?  She  ought  to  be  very  pretty  if  she  looks  at  all 
the  way  her  mother  did  when  she  was  her  age.  Is 
Kitty  as  lovely  as  ever,  Harriet  ?  " 

Miss  Mix's  square,  twinkling  face  was  shaded  for 
a  moment  with  cold  reserve. 

"  Well,  we  are  all  grown  older,  I  suppose,"  she 
said  guardedly.  "  Everybody  said  she  looked  very  well 
at  the  fraternity  dance  the  other  night.  She  was  there 
with  Sylvia,  dressed  like  a  girl !  I  declare  it  gave  me 
quite  a  turn  to  think  of  poor  Tom  dead  in  his  grave 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  91 

and  every  one  else  dancing.  He  was  always  such  a 
one  for  balls  and  parties.  But  I  mistrust  that  there 
was  a  single  other  person  in  the  room  that  gave  him  a 
thought.  I  suppose  she  will  take  Sylvia  to  all  the  par- 
ties this  Commencement." 

Miss  Porter  passed  over  most  of  this  speech  with 
a  smile  of  mischievous  appreciation  of  the  jealousy  that 
lay  beneath. 

"  Sylvia,  too !  Going  to  parties !  Alas !  there  are 
no  little  girls  left  anywhere.  But  I  am  quite  curious 
to  see  how  she  has  turned  out.  She  was  a  bewitching 
little  creature.  I  remember  telling  her  once  that  she 
was  very  pretty.  '  No,  I  am  not,'  she  said  very  grave- 
ly. '  It  is  Marjorie  every  one  thinks  so  pretty.  I  am 
only  fascinating.' ' 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud !  "  said  Miss  Mix  in  a  pene- 
trating whisper.  "  That  is  Stephen  Dullas  three  seats 
farther  down  the  table.  He  is  everlastingly  at  the  Law- 
rences, and  everybody  says  he  is  going  there  after 
Sylvia." 

Miss  Porter  turned  her  alert  brown  eyes  in  the  di- 
rection indicated. 

"  What  a  good-looking  boy !  "  she  said,  gazing  a 
moment  calmly,  and  then  turning  away. 

"  I  think  I  shall  stroll  up  there  after  supper.  Do 
you  want  to  come,  too,  Mr.  Field  ?  " 

Anything  seemed  better  to  Franklin  than  returning 
to  his  third  story  and  his  French  exercises.  He  ac- 
cepted with  enthusiasm,  and  followed  her  docilely  out 
of  the  front  gate  into  the  shady  street. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  very  comfortable  here,"  she  re- 


92  IN    THE   HOUSE 

marked,  glancing  back  at  the  white,  Greek  portico  shin- 
ing among  the  trees.  "  Harriet  is  a  good,  kind  soul, 
and  a  famous  housekeeper.  She  has  her  weaknesses, 
of  course,  as  no  doubt  you  have  discovered;  rather 
pushing,  rather  intrusive,"  Miss  Porter  continued 
with  facile  indiscretion.  "  When  we  were  all  children 
together,  Sylvia  and  Annie  Lawrence  and  Nannie 
Chandler — Nannie  Constable,  she  was  then — and  I,  we 
were  always  running  away  from  her,  losing  her  in  the 
college  woods,  and  otherwise  maltreating  her.  It  would 
sometimes  have  been  convenient  if  she  had  taken  last- 
ing offence  at  us,  but  she  never  did.  You  can  imagine 
just  what  kind  of  little  girl  she  was,  always  peeping 
and  prying,  listening  round  corners,  and  then  coming 
up  with  offers  to  help  just  when  we  were  ready  to  kill 
her  for  finding  out  our  secrets.  She  adored  me;  she 
does  still,  though  I  treated  her  worse  than  any  of  the 
others  did." 

Franklin  listened  wonderingly.    At  last  he  broke  in. 

"  I  can't  get  used  to  the  strangeness  of  finding  a 
person  like  you  here  in  the  midst  of  this  little  place, 
talking  about  it  as  though  you  belonged  to  it." 

"  But  I  do  belong  to  it,"  said  Ethel,  turning  upon 
him  with  her  bright,  intent  gaze. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't,  though  it  may  please  you  to 
pretend  you  do !  "  he  answered  audaciously,  careless 
how  his  metropolitan  contempt  pierced  through  and  be- 
trayed his  feeling  for  his  present  surroundings.  But 
Ethel  did  not  laugh,  half -flattered,  and  agree  with  him 
as  he  had  expected.  She  answered  instead  with  a  de- 
gree of  feeling  which  surprised  him. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  93 

"  I  was  born  here,  I  was  brought  up  here.  My 
family  belong  to  the  very  roots  of  the  place.  That  old 
yellow  house  with  the  big  garden,  at  the  corner  of  State 
and  College  streets,  was  where  we  lived.  My  father 
was  a  trustee  of  the  college  for  years  and  years.  This 
is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for  which  I  have  a  senti- 
ment. So  you  must  not  turn  up  your  nose  at  it  to  me. 
I  won't  give  you  a  ray  of  sympathy." 

Franklin  was  profuse  in  his  assurances  of  respect 
and  admiration.  He  was  a  little  anxious,  too,  to  re- 
move any  impression  she  might  have  received  of  his 
disaffection  or  indifference  to  his  surroundings,  which 
might  injure  him  with  the  old  inhabitants  of  the  town. 
But  Ethel  did  not  listen  to  his  explanations. 

"  At  least  you  can't  deny  that  it  is  a  very  pretty 
old  place,"  she  said,  as  they  approached  the  long  lines 
of  elms,  the  smooth,  white  walks,  the  green  enclosures 
and  gray  walls  of  the  college  precincts.  "  Let  us  go  the 
back  way  through  the  gardens,  in  memory  of  the  time 
when  it  would  have  been  unmaidenly  and  indecent  to 
walk  boldly  past  the  dormitories  and  the  crowds  of 
students  sitting  on  the  steps.  Silly  fellows!  I  see 
them  sitting  there  still,  singing  the  same  old  songs  with 
the  same  disregard  of  key.  This  is  the  way,  right  past 
the  Merritts'  windows.  I  hope  they  won't  look  out 
and  see  us.  It  used  to  be  the  dear  old  Curtises'  when  I 
was  a  girl." 

The  path  led  through  the  intricacies  of  back  gar- 
dens which  no  fence  separated  one  from  another;  it 
approached  boldly  close  to  kitchen  entrances ;  it  skirted 
a  long,  low  trellis-work  and  a  little  grape-arbor. 


94  IN    THE    HOUSE 

"Do  you  smell  it?"  cried  Ethel.  "Isn't  it  en- 
chanting? It  is  the  grape  in  bloom." 

They  had  come  up  close  beside  a  big,  straggling, 
unkempt  house,  set  so  far  behind  the  others  that  it 
really  faced  on  a  back  road.  From  two  of  its  lower, 
open  windows,  faint  and  colorless  in  the  still  luminous 
twilight,  came  the  glimmer  of  a  student  lamp  casting 
its  narrow  light  upon  a  study  table  covered  with  books 
and  papers.  A  sound  of  men's  voices,  the  acrid  smoke 
of  pipes  drifted  out  and  mingled  with  the  odor  of  the 
grape  in  the  garden. 

"  Hush !  "  whispered  Franklin  involuntarily.  "  I 
don't  want  them  to  look  out  and  see  me.  It  is  a  meet- 
ing of  the  faculty,  where,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  be." 

Where  perhaps  he  ought  to  be?  As  he  spoke,  he 
realized  that  his  mind  was  not  quite  made  up  about  his 
wisdom  in  the  rejection  of  Brownell's  invitation.  He 
recognized  Merritt's  voice,  strident,  authoritative,  dom- 
inating the  others,  and  was  stung  again  with  the  doubt 
whether,  after  all,  safety,  dignity,  and  ultimate  ad- 
vantage did  not  lie  for  him  rather  with  that  little  group 
of  eager  men  around  Brownell's  study  table,  than  here 
where  he  was,  wandering  aimlessly  in  the  perfumed 
darkness  with  a  woman,  one  of  his  mother's  friends. 

But  he  walked  on  beside  her,  wavering  and  uncer- 
tain, still  persisting,  in  spite  of  her  frank  assurances 
that  she  could  do  without  him  perfectly,  and  that  he 
might  much  better  go  where  his  business  called  him, 
till  they  came  out  into  the  open  space  behind  the  Dean's 
garden.  Then  Ethel  sprang  forward  with  a  sudden 
cry. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  95 

"  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me,  or  isn't  that  Nannie 
Chandler  herself  coming  out  of  the  Dean's  gate?" 

She  ran  like  a  girl  across  the  short  grass. 

"  My  dear  Nannie!  " 

"  Why,  Ethel,  where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

Franklin  sauntered  up  a  moment  afterward  into  a 
hubbub  of  pleased  explanation,  question  and  answer. 

"  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  you  if  I  didn't  find  Kitty 
first." 

"  She  isn't  there.  I  have  just  been  looking  for  her 
in  the  garden.  She  may  be  over  at  my  house  now. 
She  promised  to  come  after  tea  to  get  Sylvia.  I  prob- 
ably missed  her  by  going  the  back  way.  You  had 
better  come  back  with  me,  and  you,  too,  Mr.  Field." 

She  smiled  kindly  upon  the  young  man,  who  was 
still  lingering  beside  them. 

.  "  Oh,  he  ought  to  be  at  a  faculty  meeting  this  very 
minute!  "  cried  Ethel.  "  I  have  been  feeling  it  on  my 
conscience  for  the  last  half  hour." 

"  A  faculty  meeting !  "  cried  Mrs.  Chandler  in  sur- 
prise. "  Albion  knows  nothing  about  it.  I  left  him 
at  home  reading  the  paper." 

Here  Franklin's  demure  voice  broke  in  between 
them. 

"  Miss  Porter  misunderstood  me.  I  didn't  say  a 
faculty  meeting,  but  a  meeting  of  the  faculty.  Mark 
the  difference.  You,  Mrs.  Chandler,  will  understand." 

"  Treason,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  shrugging  her  thin 
shoulders. 

"  Possibly." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  cried  Ethel,  hot  with  curi- 


96  IN   THE   HOUSE 

osity.  "  Harriet  Mix  was  in  my  room  for  two  hours 
before  supper,  helping  me  to  unpack,  and  I  really 
thought  I  had  arrived  at  bed-rock  of  Littelton  gossip 
when  she  had  finished,  but  I  see  she  has  left  me  unen- 
lightened on  many  points." 

"  Oh,  well,  even  she  would  hardly  have  the  face  to 
talk  to  you  about  the  college  while  she  is  hand  and  glove 
with  its  bitterest  enemies !  " 

"  Enemies !  Tell  me  all  about  it,  or  are  we  indis- 
creet to  talk  openly  before  this  gentleman  ?  " 

She  cast  an  impertinent  glance  at  Franklin. 

"  Oh,  no !  He  is  on  our  side,  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 
Chandler  confidently.  "  It  is  only  these  new  men,  who 
took  the  places  of  my  father  and  Dr.  Curtis.  You 
must  remember  most  of  them,  Ethel.  Professor  Mer- 
ritt  is  the  ringleader,  and  don't  you  remember  that 
dreadful  Mrs.  Brauer,  with  her  toothpick  and  her  im- 
pertinent questions  ?  It  is  her  husband,  too,  and  some 
of  the  new  instructors.  They  have  formed  a  party 
in  the  faculty  who  seem  to  make  it  their  business  to 
insult  and  thwart  the  dear  old  Dean  at  every  point. 
Albion  says  they  make  his  blood  boil  by  the  way  they 
often  speak  to  him.  But  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
bear  it.  The  Dean  can't  turn  them  out." 

"Turn  them  out,  why  can't  he  turn  them  out?" 
cried  Ethel,  instantly  dropping  the  inquisitive  yet 
inattentive  flippancy  which  had  hitherto  somewhat 
ruffled  Franklin  in  her  manner  to  himself,  losing  her 
temper,  losing  her  distinction  in  all  the  simple  preju- 
dice and  passion  of  partisanship. 

"  Grown  old !  too  old ! "  he  heard  her  cry  at  last, 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  97 

her  voice  thrilling  with  genuine  feeling.  "  Well,  sup- 
pose he  were,  suppose  he  were  so  old  that  there  was 
nothing  left  of  him  but  his  name  ?  What  then !  With- 
out his  name  and  his  uncle's,  who  outside  this  valley 
would  have  even  heard  of  or  cared  about  Littel  Col- 
lege? These  men — Merritt  and  Co. — when  they  try 
to  enlarge  themselves  by  putting  him  down,  had  better 
remember  that  his  name  now  has  greater  power  in  the 
world  than  the  name  of  the  college  itself,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  their  insignificance." 

Her  words  roused  the  enthusiasm  he  had  once  felt 
for  the  Dean  as  a  great  man;  that  facile  enthusiasm, 
born  of  other  people's  applause,  which  had  so  soon 
waned  in  the  chilling  silences  of  Littel  College.  Her 
eagerness  whipped  him  into  line  again.  He  lost  the 
little  ironic  smile  which  had  come  to  his  lips  at  first 
as  he  heard  his  faculty  colleagues  abused,  and  thought 
how  easily  he  might  some  day  be  classed  among  them. 
The  momentary  attraction  he  had  felt  toward  the  other 
side  went  out,  never  to  be  renewed.  This  was  really 
his  side — people  who  talked  in  soft  voices,  and  used 
his  own  language,  and  hung  upon  his  words  with 
breathless  attention  when  he  found  himself,  almost  in- 
voluntarily, divulging  by  veiled  hints  and  cautious 
statements  what  was  the  purpose  of  that  meeting  of 
the  faculty  to  which  Professor  Chandler  had  not  been 
bidden. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  they  think  they  have  a  ma- 
jority in  the  board  of  trustees?  How  about  Richard, 
then  ?  "  said  Ethel  suddenly. 

"  Well,  they  rather  count  him  out.     You  see  he 


98  IN    THE   HOUSE 

comes  so  seldom  to  the  meetings  of  the  board  that  his 
vote  is  almost  a  negligible  factor." 

Ethel  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  He  is  coming  this  year,"  she  said  with  a  subtle 
change  of  tone. 

"  Oh,  Ethel,  are  you  sure?  "  said  Mrs.  Chandler. 

"  Yes,  quite  sure.  He  has  some  business  with  the 
college.  He  will  be  at  the  June  meeting.  I  saw  him 
only  the  other  day.  It  is  all  arranged."  She  broke  off 
rather  abruptly. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  Promenade 
and  had  entered  upon  the  shadow  of  the  great,  gray 
laboratory  and  school  house  of  engineering.  Beyond 
stretched  the  tall,  brown  palings  of  the  botanic  gar- 
den, and  the  Chandlers'  house  could  be  seen  glimmer- 
ing white  and  ghostly  among  its  surrounding  trees. 
But  here  they  stopped,  hearing  heavy,  swift  steps  be- 
hind them,  as  of  some  one  running  to  overtake  them. 
A  tall,  shambling  figure  loomed  out  of  the  twilight  of 
the  elms.  It  was  young  Hough,  a  scholarship  student 
who  was  working  his  way  through  college — one  of  the 
Dean's  henchmen.  He  came  up  now,  breathless  and 
apologetic. 

"Mr.  Field,  may  I  speak  to  you  a  minute?  The 
Dean  wants  you,  sir." 

"  Now,  at  this  minute  ?  "  said  Franklin  discontent- 
edly. His  old  chains  surprised  him  after  his  brief  mo- 
ment of  imagined  freedom. 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  soon  as  you  can,  he  said." 

Franklin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Some  letters,  I  suppose,  that  he  wants  to  get 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  99 

off  by  the  midnight  mail.     Well,   there   is  no  help 
for  it." 

He  took  ceremonious  leave  of  Mrs.  Chandler  and 
Miss  Porter  and  turned  back  with  Hough  down  the 
long  white  path  across  the  campus. 


XI 


A  VERY  nice  fellow,  such  good  manners  and  ex- 
ceedingly intelligent,"  said  Mrs.  Chandler,  dis- 
missing him  absent-mindedly.  "  Don't  let  us  go  in  just 
yet,  Ethel.  The  children  and  Albion  may  be  in  the 
sitting-room  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  ask  you,"  said  Ethel  almost  at 
the  same  moment. 

They  sat  down  on  the  broad  top  step,  under  the 
little  Greek  portico  of  the  porch,  with  its  two  fluted 
wooden  columns. 

"  Is  it  true  that  the  Dean  has  broken  so  much  ?  " 
asked  Ethel  at  once,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Chandler  stammered  a  little. 

"  No,  oh,  no !  not  much !  Not  at  all  until  about  a 
year  ago.  You  know  this  awful  affair  of  Wilfred 
Cochran's  had  worn  upon  him  dreadfully,  and  lately 
he  has  begun  to  show  it  a  little." 

"  Well,  do  tell  me,  what  is  the  truth  about  Wilfred 
Cochran?  Harriet  Mix  has  been  narrating  the  most 
horrid  tales,  but  I  want  them  confirmed  before  I  be- 
lieve them.  I  never  knew  he  had  a  wife,  but  now  I 
hear  he  has  deserted  her." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  not  exactly !  A  great  deal  worse  for 
him,  poor  fellow !  Of  course  it  all  happened  since  you 
were  last  here.  You  knew  he  drank  ?  " 

100 


IN   THE    HOUSE  OF.   HER   FRIENDS   101 

"  No,  I  didn't.  At  least  I  knew  of  course  that  was 
why  he  was  turned  out  of  West  Point,  but  I  thought 
he'd  got  over  it."  < 

"  Not  entirely.  It  seems  there  were  times  in  the 
past  when  the  old  craving  came  over  him  and  he  had 
to  cut  loose  from  everything;  once  or  twice,  even, 
since  he  was  made  professor  here,  but  the  dear  old 
Dean  covered  it  up  and  no  one  knew.  But  I  believe 
it  had  been  years  and  years  since  the  last  time,  and 
there  was  every  reason  to  think  it  would  never  happen 
again,  when,  without  any  warning,  or  any  special 
reason  to  explain  it,  two  years  ago  last  Easter  he  dis- 
appeared in  the  middle  of  the  term,  no  one  knows 
where.  The  Dean  finally  got  word  from  some  wretched 
place  near  Highland  Falls.  He  was  there,  ill.  The 
dear  old  man  went  down  himself  to  look  after  him. 
The  awful  thing  about  it  this  time  was  that  there  was 
a  woman  with  him,  taking  care  of  him,  who  swore  to 
the  Dean  that  she  was  his  wife.  But  if  she  was,  there 
is  no  doubt  she  had  taken  advantage  of  his  condition 
and  made  him  marry  her  when  he  didn't  know  what 
he  was  doing.  Albion  thinks  there  may  have  been 
some  connection  in  the  past,  perhaps  from  old  West 
Point  days,  which  made  him  drift  there  this  time  when 
he  lost  control  of  himself.  When  the  Dean  came,  it 
was  apparently  too  late  to  do  anything  to  save  him 
from  the  consequences." 

"  He  ought  never  to  have  come  back,"  said  Ethel 
harshly. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  Mrs.  Chandler  admitted.  "  But 
after  all,  what  was  he  to  do  ?  He  hadn't  a  cent  in  the 


102  IN   THE    HOUSE 

world  except  his  salary.  She  is  a  decent  woman,  ac- 
cording to  her  lights,  I  believe,  and  he  had  to  support 
her.  At  any  rate,  the  Dean  helped  him  to  come  back. 
Most  people  think  now  that  it  was  a  great  mistake,  but 
he  is  such  a  brilliant  man  in  his  subject  that  the  col- 
lege hated  to  lose  him,  and  every  one  was  willing  to 
give  him  another  chance.  We  all  called  on  his  wife. 
You  can  imagine  what  sort  of  a  woman  she  is,  with 
that  story  behind  her.  It  is  my  secret  suspicion  that 
she  drinks  too.  At  any  rate  she  is  utterly  impossible, 
besides  being  fiercely  jealous  and  suspicious  of  every 
one  and  everything  connected  with  her  husband  before 
his  marriage,  which  rather  complicates  one's  expres- 
sions of  good-will,  doesn't  it?  Fortunately  Harriet 
Mix  and  that  horrid  little  Mrs.  Brauer  seem  to  find 
points  of  contact,  so  she  is  not  entirely  neglected.  He 
pulled  himself  up  at  first,  and  did  pretty  well,  but  after 
his  child  died " 

"Did  he  have  a  child?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  soon !  Fortunately  it  died  almost 
as  soon  as  it  was  born.  For  a  long  time  every  one  had 
known  that  he  was  drinking  again,  but  after  that  he 
ceased  to  make  any  attempt  to  conceal  it.  In  fact  it 
is  an  open  scandal  in  the  town  and  has  done  so  much 
harm  to  the  Dean  and  the  college.  I  am  sure  it  is  one 
of  the  most  serious  causes  of  all  this  trouble  in  the 
faculty.  None  of  his  old  friends  ever  see  him  or  have 
anything  to  do  with  him." 

"  Not  very  merciful  of  them,"  interpolated  Miss 
Porter  dryly. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  their  fault ;  it  is  himself.    He 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  103 

is  always  putting  himself  beyond  the  pale.  I  suppose 
Harriet  Mix  has  told  you  about  the  dance  the  other 
night?" 

"  Yes.  Hardly  a  pleasant  incident  to  enliven  a 
festivity,  was  it  ?  " 

"Well,  exactly!  What  is  one  to  do?  With  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world,  what  is  one  to  do  ?  Even 
the  Lawrences  see  nothing  of  him.  Kitty  told  me  so 
herself  the  other  night." 

"  I  always  thought  he  might  be  in  love  with  Kitty," 
said  Ethel  musingly. 

The  other  cried  out  in  disapprobation. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  child !  Don't  bring  such  lurid  ideas 
into  this  simple  little  place.  The  thing  is  quite  bad 
enough  without  that." 

"  He  was  perfectly  devoted  to  her." 

"  Yes,  and  to  the  Dean.  It  is  very  natural  when 
one  remembers  how  much  he  owed  to  Tom.  You  know 
how  fond  Tom  was  of  him,  and  Kitty  is  not  the  kind 
of  person  to  forget  a  thing  like  that.  I  think  she  al- 
ways felt  a  certain  responsibility  for  him,  in  Tom's 
place,  as  it  were.  She  was  always  angelically  good  to 
him,  and  I  think  she  had  a  very  good  influence  over 
him.  He  never  talked  in  that  exaggerated,  extrava- 
gant way  he  had  sometimes,  when  she  was  there.  Such 
a  pity !  For  he  could  be  so  nice  and  simple  and  agree- 
able when  he  was  in  the  mood  for  it,  and  Kitty  always 
brought  out  his  best  side." 

"  Still,  I  shouldn't  say  Kitty  was  exactly  the  kind 
of  woman  to  inspire  nothing  more  than  Platonic  friend- 
ship in  a  man  like  Wilfred  Cochran." 


104  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Mrs.  Chandler  replied  with  some  heat. 

"Why  not?" 

But  the  other  had  taken  refuge  in  flippancy. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  blame  her  for  something  so 
entirely  beyond  her  own  control.  It  isn't  her  fault  she 
is  so  peculiarly  fitted  to  be  somebody's  wife  that  no 
man  can  know  her  very  long  without  asking  her  to  be 
his.  Still  the  fact  remains,  and  makes  it  not  quite  im- 
possible that  he,  at  least " 

Mrs.  Chandler  cried  out  in  almost  absurd  annoy- 
ance and  agitation. 

"  Why  do  you  even  imagine  such  a  thing?  As  if 
it  wasn't  bad  enough  already.  My  dear,  if  what  you 
say  is  true,  it  would  be  a  tragedy,  a  tragedy !  " 

Her  earnestness  imposed  her  serious  tone  upon  the 
other  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  escape  it. 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  she  agreed  musingly;  "but 
not  nearly  as  bad  as  if  she  had  cared  for  him." 

The  mere  sight  of  Mrs.  Chandler's  outraged  coun- 
tenance made  her  hurry  to  defend  herself. 

"  I  haven't  said  she  did.  It  was  merely  a  sugges- 
tion. I  really  don't  see  why  the  very  idea  is  so  impos- 
sible. After  all,  Kitty  is  only  human.  And  he — when 
I  knew  him,  at  least — "  But  Mrs.  Chandler's  indig- 
nation snatched  the  words  from  her  mouth. 

"  Ethel,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  don't  see 
how  you  have  tne  heart,  you  who  know  all  about  it — 
her  happiness  with  Tom  Lawrence,  their  ideally  per- 
fect relations — her  grief " 

"  But  it  was  such  years  ago,"  said  Ethel  feebly. 

The  other  echoed  the  word  with  withering  scorn. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  105 

"  Years !  My  dear,  what  have  years  to  do  with 
it,  when  a  person  feels  herself  married  for  this  world 
and  the  next,  as  I  am  sure  Kitty  does.  You  have  only 
to  see  her  from  day  to  day,  as  I  do,  to  know  that  her 
life  is  buried  in  the  past,  wrapped  up  in  her  children 
and  the  dear  Dean.  Really,  Ethel,"  Mrs.  Chandler 
gave  her  little  nervous  laugh,  "you  make  me  posi- 
tively uncomfortable  by  your  hints  and  suggestions." 
i  "  I  wasn't  hinting,"  said  Ethel,  laughing  too.  "  I 
never  said — even  in  my  wildest  ^imaginings  I  never 
thought  more  than  that  Kitty  might  have  felt  a  mild 
sentiment  for  Wilfred  Cochran,  which  would  be  ag- 
grieved at  the  sudden  appearance  of  an  unheralded 
wife.  Nothing  more.  I  assure  you,  nothing  more. 
I  won't  go  as  far  as  you  about  the  impossibility  of  her 
ever  caring  for  any  one  again  in  this  world,  but  I  quite 
agree  with  you  in  this  particular  instance.  I  liked  Wil- 
fred, myself,  the  little  I  knew  him.  All  the  same,  I 
must  admit  a  sort  of  gifted  uncertainty  about  the  man 
which  must  have  kept  a  woman  like  Kitty  eternally 
upon  her  guard — to  say  nothing  of  her  own  little  pose 
of  fastidious  remoteness  from  vulgar  human  weakness, 
which  makes  one  feel  it  almost  sacrilegious  to  imagine 
her  in  any  extremity  of  emotion.  After  all,  it  is  per- 
fectly possible  there  was  nothing  but  friendship  even 
on  his  side.  All  conjecture  based  upon  the  obvious  is 
unlikely  to  be  correct  in  extraordinary  instances,  and 
then  only  by  accident.  What  does  she  think  about  this 
trouble  in  the  faculty  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chandler  made  a  little  despairing  gesture. 

"  What  does  she  think  of  anything  when  she  doesn't 


106  IN   THE    HOUSE 

choose  to  tell  you  ?  She  goes  about  and  does  her  duty 
by  being  particularly  civil  when  any  one  is  particularly 
rude." 

"  I  thought  you  said  she  was  coming  over  this 
evening." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  she  was.  Something  must  have 
kept  her.  Oh,  here  is  Tom !  "  as  a  tall  shape  appeared 
suddenly  out  of  the  darkness  and  approached  the  two 
shrouded  figures  on  the  Chandlers'  steps. 

"  Tom,  where  is  your  mother  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Chandler. 

"  At  home,"  answered  the  youth  briefly,  in  his  shy, 
base  voice. 

"  Isn't  she  coming  over  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.    She  sent  me  to  get  Sylvia." 

At  this  moment  the  upper  half  of  the  door  behind 
them  swung  slowly  open,  and  Professor  Chandler's 
bland  little  face  peeped  cautiously  out  into  the  darkness. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  voices  talking  out  on  the  porch 
for  some  time,"  he  said  with  a  mild  satisfaction  in  his 
perspicacity,  "  but  I  thought  it  best  to  wait  till  I  was 
quite  sure  you  wished  to  come  in  before  I  opened  the 
door." 

"  Well,  we  wish  to  come  in  now,"  said  his  wife 
with  her  usual  affectionate  disregard. 

The  front  door  led  directly  into  a  sitting-room 
quaintly  old-fashioned  and  uncompromising  in  its 
barrenness  of  ornament,  striped  green  and  white  wall 
paper,  and  heavy,  horse-hair  covered,  mahogany  furni- 
ture. Professor  Chandler  had  been  sitting  in  a  small, 
modern  rocking-chair,  close  to  the  circle  of  light,  by 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  107 

the  centre  table,  half-asleep  over  the  evening  paper. 
From  the  porch  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  out  of 
the  fragrant  darkness  where  the  vine  was  in  bloom, 
came  Sylvia  and  Marjorie,  in  white,  with  dazzled, 
luminous  eyes,  their  cheeks  smooth  and  pale  with  the 
coolness  of  the  night. 

"  O  you  lovely  creatures !  "  cried  Miss  Porter,  with 
her  usual  frank  indiscretion.  "  Do  come  into  the  light 
and  let  me  see  you.  Nannie,  is  it  possible  that  we  were 
ever  so  deliciously,  so  extravagantly  young  as  they? 
Do  you  remember  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  her  cheeks  going  up,  and 
her  lips  curving  prettily  over  her  white  teeth  in  her 
charming  smile. 

"  No,"  said  Sylvia.  She  never  remembered  any 
one.  Life  dropped  away  every  day  like  the  sheath  of 
an  opening  flower;  but  she  was  all  the  more  eager  for 
the  present,  and  her  eyes  began  to  dance  with  excited 
interest  as  she  listened  to  Miss  Porter  and  thought  she 
recognized  signs  of  the  training  and  experience  of  that 
wider  world  of  which  she  knew  so  little  and  thought 
so  much,  that  desirable  world  which  moved  so  swiftly 
that  its  inhabitants  might  escape  the  darkest  shadows 
of  repentance  and  reprisal,  as  those  never  could  who 
lived  in  the  little  valley  where  she  had  been  born. 

"  Tell  your  mother  that  I  am  going  to  be  at  Miss 
Mix's  until  after  Commencement,  and  I  hope  to  see 
her  very  soon,"  said  Ethel  as  they  parted  at  the  Dean's 
corner,  she  having  accepted  Tom's  shy  offer  to  take  her 
home;  "  and  give  my  best  love  to  your  grandfather." 

"Is  that  you,  children?"   said  Katherine's  voice 


io8  IN   THE   HOUSE 

from  the  upper  hall  as  the  front  door  went  open  with 
its  usual  crash  in  Sylvia's  heedless  hand.  "  How  late 
your  are!  Come  in,  and  tell  Molly  to  shut  up  the 
house." 

"  Tom  is  not  in  yet !  "  cried  Sylvia,  running  up  the 
shallow  steps,  clamorous  with  her  sense  of  injury  and 
curiosity.  "  O  mamma,  why  didn't  you  come  for  me  ? 
I  have  been  waiting  and  waiting  for  you  over  there!  " 

She  reached  the  upper  hall,  dimly  lighted  by  the 
lamp  which  hung  below.  Her  mother  was  not  there, 
but  had  gone  before  her,  back  through  one  of  the  doors 
which  stood  half-open,  into  unlit  spaces  of  shadowy 
rooms  beyond.  Sylvia,  as  she  followed,  heard  the 
scratch  of  a  match  and  saw  the  light  spring  up  from 
the  newly  kindled  lamp,  shedding  its  illumination  on 
the  heavy,  swinging  glass  of  the  dressing-table,  begin- 
ning to  send  back  dim  reflections  of  the  spacious, 
gravely  furnished  room  beyond.  She  saw  her  mother 
glance  quickly,  almost  curiously  into  the  glass  as  her 
own  reflection  grew  clearer  in  the  strengthening  light ; 
she  saw  her  put  up  her  hand  to  the  soft,  heavy  knot  of 
hair  behind,  as  if  looking  for  its  disarrangement. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  asked  again,  eagerly, 
but  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  She  was  in  too  much 
of  a  hurry  to  retail  her  own  piece  of  news. 

"  We  all  expected  you,  and  there  was  some  one 
you  know  who  wanted  to  see  you — Miss  Ethel  Porter. 
She  is  going  to  spend  Commencement  here." 

"  Hush,  dear,  not  so  loud !  "  said  Katherine,  shrink- 
ing a  little,  as  one  does  sometimes  when  a  human 
voice  breaks  in  again  upon  solitary  thinking.  "  Your 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  109 

grandfather  needed  me,  and  I  am  afraid  afterward  I 
quite  forgot  about  you  until  I  heard  Tom  come  in,  and 
sent  him  over." 

"How  tiresome  of  grandfather!  "  said  Sylvia  cross- 
ly. "  She  wanted  to  see  him  too.  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  A  telegram  came  for  him  suddenly  this  evening 
while  he  was  at  supper,  calling  him  to  New  York  on 
business.  He  went  off  by  the  8.57  train,"  said  Kath- 
erine  slowly,  and  then  hesitated  a  moment  in  silence, 
as  if  deliberating  how  she  should  answer  the  amazed 
curiosity  which  confronted  her.  She  spoke  at  last  with 
a  certain  effort,  a  careful,  gentle  brevity,  as  if  already 
discounting  the  greater  length,  the  extravagant  com- 
ment which  was  already  beginning  to  buzz  through  the 
silent  places  of  Littel  College;  which  must  sooner  or 
later  be  retold  for  Sylvia,  in  spite  of  all  the  most  care- 
ful restraint. 

"  Professor  Cochran  is  dead.  He  was  found  in  his 
room  at  the  hotel  where  he  was  staying  in  New  York. 
The  proprietor,  who  knew  of  his  connection  with  the 
college,  sent  the  news  to  your  grandfather,  who  thought 
no  one  else  would  be  as  able  to  do  what  might  be  re- 
quired, so  he  went  himself." 

"  O  mamma,  dead ! "  cried  Sylvia,  advancing  far- 
ther into  the  room,  full  of  surprise  and  shocked  emo- 
tion. "  O  mamma !  "  she  exclaimed  again,  in  a  tone 
still  more  acute  with  anxiety,  as  a  second  thought 
arose  and  struck  her,  "  do  you  think  it  will  put  a  stop 
to  the  Commencement  ball  ?  " 


XII 


THE  Dean  was  away  from  Littelton  nearly  four 
days.  He  wrote  to  his  daughter-in-law  several 
times,  though  for  the  most  part  brief  telegraphic  de- 
spatches, which  told  no  more  than  the  most  neces- 
sary details.  But  on  the  third  day  after  his  departure 
she  received  a  long  letter,  written  in  his  usual  leisurely, 
old-fashioned,  epistolary  style.  When  she  found  her- 
self alone  at  the  breakfast-table,  Tom  having  departed 
for  his  first  recitation,  and  Sylvia  not  yet  come  down, 
she  perused  it  again  more  than  once,  re-reading  the  last 
pages,  especially,  with  an  almost  painful  attention.  Dr. 
Lawrence  was  staying  at  the  house  of  a  friend  of  his, 
the  rector  of  one  of  the  uptown  churches.  He  wrote : 
"  I  am  very  comfortably  settled.  D is  most  at- 
tentive, and  his  wife  a  very  agreeable,  well-informed 
woman.  They  insisted  on  inviting  several  people  to 
meet  me  yesterday  evening,  very  informally.  It  was 
in  no  sense  a  dinner  party,  and  I  own  I  enjoyed  it, 
though  I  began  by  feeling  very  little  in  the  spirit  for 
it.  I  had  a  good  deal  to  say  on  that  new  bill  for  the 
taxing  of  college  property  now  before  the  Legislature, 
and  I  could  feel  that  I  had  succeeded  in  putting  it 

before  them  in  a  new  light.    D took  me  round  to  the 

Century  Club  for  a  few  minutes  later  in  the  evening. 
It  is,  of  course,  rather  late  in  the  season.     People  are 

no 


IN   THE   HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS    in 

already  beginning  to  leave  town,  but  I  saw  a  great 
many  new  faces,  and  several  old  ones.  I  was  shocked 
to  notice  the  change  in  my  old  friend  Dr.  Eustis, 
younger  than  I  am  by  several  years.  He  looked  shriv- 
elled and  bent,  and  walked  with  difficulty,  supporting 
himself  with  a  heavy  stick.  I  felt  myself  a  lusty  young- 
ster beside  him,  for  this  life  in  New  York  is  a  great  tax 
on  a  man's  vitality.  The  constant  noise  and  confusion 

is  very  fatiguing.    D 's  house,  of  course,  is  in  one 

of  the  quietest  of  the  uptown  streets,  just  out  of  Park 
Avenue,  which,  with  its  broad,  sunny  spaces  and  little 
flower  gardens,  imparts  at  least  some  small  freshness 
to  the  stale  city  air.  But  I  own,  in  spite  of  all  the 
comforts  with  which  I  am  surrounded,  I  have  found 
great  difficulty  in  sleeping  since  I  have  been  here,  great 
oppression  of  breathing,  which  makes  me  prefer  to  sit 
up  reading  or  writing  long  after  the  late  hour  when 
we  all  retire ;  and  the  noise  of  the  milk  carts  wakes  me 
in  the  morning  earlier  than  at  home.  The  surcharge 
of  material  things  provided  for  one's  comfort  ends  by 
impressing  me  almost  painfully.  That  luxury  and  re- 
finement of  living,  whose  only  excuse  is  when  it  leaves 
a  man  freer  from  wasting  detail,  seems  to  be  used  here 
only  to  complicate  and  entangle  one's  simpler  daily 
life,  leaving  less  and  less  time  for  the  things  of  the 
spirit.  Perhaps  just  now  I  am  the  less  in  tune  for 
it  because  I  seem  to  see  constantly  before  me  that 
wretched  upper  room  in  that  unsavory  corner  saloon, 
the  rigid,  silent  figure  covered  carelessly  with  a  sheet, 
the  dreadful  change  on  the  familiar  features — the 
tragedy  of  that  shameful  end  to  so  much  promise. 


ii2  IN   THE    HOUSE 

"  The  owner  of  the  saloon — Michael  Murphy,  by 
name — has  been  most  considerate,  most  obliging.  No 
gentleman  could  have  done  more  to  make  my  sad  task 
easier.  But,  indeed,  every  one  has  been  most  kind. 
The  coroner  turned  out  to  be  a  Littel  graduate — Bates, 
of  '79 — perhaps  you  remember  him.  I  believe  I  told 
you  that  there  were  several  suspicious  circumstances 
when  the  body  was  first  discovered,  which  made  them 
suspect  suicide.  Nothing  of  the  sort,  it  turned  out 
from  the  autopsy.  The  dreadful  discoloration  of  the 
upper  part  of  the  face  was  the  result  of  purely  natural 
causes.  But  Bates  was  as  anxious  as  I  to  keep  it  out 
of  the  papers,  and  as  luck  would  have  it  the  reporter 
sent  down  by  the  Globe  was  another  Littel  College 
boy.  He  never  graduated,  I  believe,  but  I  remember 
him  perfectly.  The  other  men  were  a  very  gentlemanly 
set  of  fellows,  so  there  has  been  only  the  merest  men- 
tion of  the  affair  in  any  of  the  daily  papers. 

"  I  have  become  quite  familiar  with  this  dreary  lo- 
cality, this  wretched  little  upper  room,  with  its  out- 
look on  one  of  those  broad,  squalid  avenues  beyond 
the  elevated  road.  I  am  sitting  alone  now,  at  a  bare 
table  near  the  window  above  the  saloon,  while  I  write 
this  letter  to  you.  The  proprietor's  son,  a  most  intel- 
ligent young  fellow,  has  put  himself  entirely  at  my  dis- 
posal. Only  a  public-school  education,  but  the  result 
is  creditable  to  himself  and  his  country.  I  was  able 
to  dictate  to  him  a  great  number  of  my  letters  which  I 
could  not  write  myself,  owing  to  the  pain  in  my  hands. 
I  wrote  Chandler  about  the  details  of  the  funeral,  even 
before  we  could  decide  on  the  day,  and  through  this 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  113 

lad  I  have  been  able  to  arrange  with  the  undertaker  at 
Littelton,  besides  a  hundred  other  small  matters  which 
I  can't  leave  to  Chandler,  and  should  hate  to  impose 
on  you,  my  dear  Kitty.  There  is  one  thing,  however, 
I  should  like  you  to  see  about,  if  you  will.  It  concerns 
Mrs.  Cochran.  I  do  not  feel  it  right  to  leave  her  in 
the  dark  about  all  the  details  of  her  husband's  death 
and  funeral.  I  have  felt  greatly  tempted  to  write  to 
her,  yet  I  cannot  help  believing  that  all  my  former 
relations  with  her  would  make  any  news  coming  from 
me  unnecessarily  painful.  Can  you  see  her  yourself, 
and  explain  to  her  as  much  as  she  will  bear  of  the 
painful  story?  Assure  her  that  everything  has  been 
done  with  the  utmost  consideration  for  her  feelings 
and  his  dignity.  And  one  other  matter,  my  dear  Kitty, 
I  hope  you  won't  think  me  too  fanciful,  but  I  should 
like  something  from  Tom  to  lie  on  his  coffin  in  the 
memory  that  they  would  have  been  soldiers  together 
if  fate  had  not  broken  him  so  soon.  Will  you  see  to 
that  for  Tom  and  me  ?  " 

Katherine  folded  up  the  letter  and  returned  it  to 
its  envelope,  letting  it  and  her  hands  fall  together  in 
her  lap.  She  was  still  there,  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
her  head  a  little  raised,  her  eyes  strained  with  an  inner 
look  of  more  and  more  poignant  sadness,  when  Sylvia 
came  in  with  the  cloud  of  an  uncertain  morning  mood 
upon  her  brow.  The  shadow  lifted,  however,  when 
she  found  herself  met  with  no  uncomfortable  comment 
on  her  want  of  punctuality,  and  saw  Molly  come  in 
unexpectedly  with  hot  toast  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Mamma,  dear,  I  like  that  linen  dress  you  have  on. 


114  IN   THE   HOUSE 

It  makes  you  look  so  nice  and  clear,"  she  cried  with 
affectionate  admiration,  as  she  stretched  out  her  bowl 
of  oatmeal  for  some  more  cream.  "  You  always  look 
so  pretty  in  the  morning." 

Katherine  gazed  at  her  dimly  a  moment,  as  if  she 
hardly  saw  her.  Then  she  smiled,  though  not  enough 
to  drive  away  the  melancholy  of  her  eyes. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  must  go  and  leave  you,"  she  said 
with  a  faint  effort,  after  her  usual  half-ironic  accept- 
ance of  her  little  daughter's  flattery. 

"  Oh,  don't  go !  don't  go !  "  cried  Sylvia,  reduced 
to  entreaties.  "  I  hate  so  to  eat  alone !  Don't  go,  and 
I  will  help  you  afterward  with  the  flowers ! " 

Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"  The  flowers  are  finished,  and  I  am  in  a  hurry, 
for  I  have  something  to  do  before  I  go  downtown. 
Would  you  like  to  drive  with  me,  Sylvia,  at  nine 
o'clock?" 

"  Where?  "  asked  Sylvia  cautiously. 

"  First  I  must  stop  at  Miss  Mix's,  and  then  leave 
some  orders  at  Van  Deusen's,  and  then  I  am  going  out 
on  the  Statesburg  road  to  the  nurseries." 

"  Will  you  promise  me  you  won't  make  me  get  out 
anywhere  ?  "  asked  Sylvia  suspiciously. 

Katherine  laughed  a  little. 

"  You  needn't  go  at  all  unless  you  wish.  I  can 
do  perfectly  well  without  you,  and  I  shan't  make  any 
promises.  But  if  it  isn't  too  muddy  we  might  drive 
a  little  farther  out  on  the  Statesburg  road  toward  that 
pretty  view.  Should  you  like  that  ?  " 

Sylvia  nodded. 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  115 

"  Then  run  over  to  the  stable  as  soon  as  you  have 
finished  your  breakfast  and  tell  Mike  to  bring  round 
the  horse  at  a  quarter  past  nine.  And  put  on  a  coat, 
for  it  is  cold  after  the  rain  last  night." 

But  Sylvia  almost  wished  she  had  not  gone,  as 
she  sat  by  her  mother  in  the  phaeton  in  front  of  Miss 
Mix's,  and  heard  what  seemed  to  her  an  interminable 
conversation  between  Katherine  and  that  stout  little 
lady,  who  had  come  out  as  soon  as  she  saw  the  dark 
brown  mare  draw  up  and  stop  at  her  horse-block,  and 
now  stood,  one  pudgy  hand  on  the  dashboard,  the  other 
holding  the  side  of  the  open  top,  as  if  she  never  meant 
to  let  go. 

Yet  it  was  in  answer  to  some  request  of  Katherine's 
that  she  was  pouring  out  that  flood  of  rather  lurid 
details  about  poor  Patty  Cochran;  her  entire  collapse 
when  she  first  received  the  news  of  her  husband's 
death ;  her  shrieks ;  her  hysterics ;  how  Mrs.  Brauer  and 
Miss  Mix  herself  had  watched  with  her  night  and 
day;  how  this  morning  Harriet  had  already  been  to 
see  her,  but  had  found  her  calmer,  more  resigned. 
This  and  much  more  she  said  with  her  usual  volubility, 
increased  tenfold  by  the  flattering  attention  of  Kath- 
erine's grave  blue  eyes.  Sylvia  felt  quite  vexed  with 
her  mother  for  not  cutting  her  short.  But  far  from 
impatience,  there  was  something  almost  like  humility 
in  Katherine's  voice  when  she  spoke  at  last. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind.  We  ought  all  to  thank 
you  for  doing  so  much  more  than  your  share  of  the 
duty  which  belongs  to  us  all  alike." 

"  Oh,  but  I  could  never  consider  it  a  duty,  Mrs. 


ii6  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Lawrence !  "  cried  Miss  Mix,  her  ignoble  little  face 
aflame  with  something  that  looked  like  genuine  feeling. 
"  In  times  like  these,  we  can't  but  feel  ourselves  all 
sisters,  and  there  is  something  in  poor  Patty's  condi- 
tion which  would  touch  the  heart  of  a  stone.  If  you 
could  only  see  her " 

But  Katherine  interposed  somewhat  hurriedly: 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  her, 
and  it  is  to  you,  as  her  friend,  that  I  come  now."  She 
hesitated,  her  brow  sharpening  a  little  under  her  infre- 
quent frown.  "  I — I  haven't  been  to  see  Mrs.  Coch- 
ran.  I  didn't  feel  that  she  would  wish  it " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  she  would  be  very  much  pleased !  " 
cried  Miss  Mix  officiously.  "  Any  little  mark  of  re- 
spect in  times  like  these  is  sure  to  be  appreciated." 

Katherine  was  silent  a  moment,  then  began  again, 
softly  putting  aside  the  other's  last  remark. 

"  I  think,  however,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,  I  shall 
still  ask  you  to  go  to  her  for  me.  I  know  how  pain- 
ful it  must  be  for  her  that  all  these  last  arrangements 
should  have  been  made  without  consulting  her.  She 
might  easily  resent  being  informed  of  them  by  some 
one  almost  a  stranger,  as  I  am — to  her,"  Katherine 
added  after  an  almost  imperceptible  pause. 

"  Well,  I  suppose,  now  you  mention  it,  that  might 
be  so,"  said  Miss  Mix,  a  serious  meaning  beginning 
to  dawn  over  her  face  and  purse  her  lips.  "  After  all, 
poor  Patty  is  no  more  than  human." 

Katherine  paused  a  moment  to  take  breath  and  then 
went  on  in  a  voice  which  she  kept  perfectly  steady, 
though  before  she  had  finished  her  face  was  more  than 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  117 

half-averted  from  the  curious,  peering  eyes  which  were 
watching  so  intently  to  make  their  own  interpretation 
of  any  shade  of  unexpected  expression  they  found  there. 

"  Dr.  Lawrence  wished  Mrs.  Cochran  to  be  in- 
formed of  all  the  little  details  of  the  funeral,  as  far  as 
possible — as  soon  as  he  knew  them  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Mix,  ".I  am  sure  the  Dean  is 
most  considerate." 

"  Here  are  the  copies  of  parts  of  his  letters  to  me, 
which  I  have  made,  so  as  to  be  sure  that  nothing  is  for- 
gotten. The  train  arrives  to-morrow  at  1.45  from 
New  York,  and  they  go  at  once  to  the  chapel  without 
stopping  at  the  house." 

At  this  point  Miss  Mix's  face,  which  had  been 
bland  with  gratified  and  sympathetic  curiosity,  became 
dark  with  surprise  and  disapproval. 

"  Do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  that  not  even  poor 
Patty  herself  is  to  have  a  chance  to  view  the  remains 
before  the  interment  ?  " 

Katherine  drew  her  breath  sharply. 

"  The  Dean  is  very  sorry  about  that,"  she  an- 
swered, surprised  into  a  sort  of  apology. 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  is  not  my  place  to  offer  advice 
when  it  is  not  asked,"  said  the  other,  voluble,  almost 
truculent,  in  the  shock  of  her  own  disappointment, 
"  but  I  must  say  I  can't  be  responsible  for  the  way 
Patty  takes  any  such  news.  Indeed,  I  don't  feel  that 
I  can  see  my  way  to  facing  her  with  it  at  all." 

Katherine  turned  to  her  quickly,  her  face  suddenly 
unveiled  by  a  personal  appeal. 

"  I  am  sure,  Miss  Mix,  you  are  too  kind  a  woman 


u8  IN   THE   HOUSE 

to  wish  to  make  anything  more  difficult  for  us  just 
now ;  you  are  her  friend,  and  you  have  known  the  Dean 
for  a  great  many  years.  Won't  you  try  to  make  Mrs. 
Cochran  understand  that,  far  from  there  being  the 
least  disregard  for  her  feelings  in  this  respect,  there 
has  been  the  greatest  care  to  save  them.  If  you  will 
only  recall  the  little  that  is  known  of  the  circumstances 
of  his  death,  you  will  see  why  any  other  arrangement 
would  have  been  infinitely  more  painful  to  her,  even 
if  it  had  been  possible." 

Instantly  mollified,  Miss  Mix  drew  near  to  share 
what  might  be  a  new  tidbit  of  hitherto  withheld  and 
unsavory  detail.  Her  voice  dropped  to  a  cautious  whis- 
per and  she  glanced  discreetly  at  Sylvia,  who  sat  drear- 
ily inattentive  on  the  other  side  of  the  carriage,  her 
eyes  and  thoughts  apparently  bent  on  the  end  of  the 
whip,  which  she  was  trailing  among  the  green  maple 
seeds  sifted  between  the  cracks  of  the  cobble-stones. 
Miss  Mix  turned  to  Katherine  again. 

"  I  had  heard  there  had  to  be  an  inquest,"  she  be- 
gan again  in  her  gusty  whisper,  "  but  I  didn't  know. 
Does  that  mean — ?  Did  they  have  to ?  " 

Katherine  shrank  from  her  base  curiosity  in  an  al- 
most visible  recoil,  cutting  her  short,  though  her  voice 
was  too  soft  to  betray  the  dislike  hidden  in  her  reply. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you  any  more.  The 
Dean  himself  has  preferred  to  spare  me  everything  ex- 
cept the  barest  reference.  When  you  have  read  these 
extracts  from  his  letters  you  will  know  quite  as  much 
as  I,  and  will  be  quite  as  able  to  draw  the  necessary 
conclusions." 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  119 

She  took  the  whip  in  a  way  that  made  Sylvia  sit 
up  as  if  she  had  been  found  fault  with.  The  brown 
mare  started  from  a  sudden  tightening  of  the  reins, 
Miss  Mix  drew  away  from  the  dashboard  in  fear  for 
her  square-toed  slippers.  But  Katherine's  manner  had 
already  resumed  its  former  deprecating  gentleness. 

"  And  if  Mrs.  Cochran  would  really  like  to  see 
me — "  she  concluded  almost  timidly. 

"  Yes,  I  understand;  I  shall  let  you  know,"  replied 
Miss  Mix,  all  officious  kindliness  and  encouragement 
again. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Sylvia  as  they  drove  down  the 
street  together,  "  I  should  not  think  Mrs.  Cochran 
would  like  people  to  talk  about  her  and  tell  everything, 
as  Miss  Mix  was  doing  just  now  to  you.  I  should 
think  she  would  almost  rather  be  left  alone." 

"  O  Sylvia !  "  said  Mrs.  Lawrence,  with  what  was 
almost  a  cry  of  despair  and  discouragement,  "  as  you 
grow  older  you  will  find  that  almost  anything  is  for- 
given sooner  than  suspected  coldness  and  want  of  sym- 
pathy." 


XIII 

A  LITTLE  way  farther  down  the  street  they 
passed  Ethel  Porter  and  Mrs.  Chandler  walk- 
ing slowly  along  together,  arm  in  arm,  under  the 
branching  maples.  Ethel  was  moving  alertly,  the  well- 
preserved  youth,  of  which  she  was  justly  proud,  show- 
ing in  every  line  of  her  supple  figure  and  spirited,  erect 
head.  She  was  twirling  and  twisting  the  white  lace 
parasol  which  lay  against  her  shoulder,  and  talking 
earnestly,  with  all  the  energy  of  emphasis  which  was 
one  of  her  mannerisms,  while  her  companion  listened 
rather  limply,  clinging  to  a  sustaining  arm,  and  mak- 
ing no  effort  to  keep  in  step.  They  both  nodded  and 
smiled,  and  Ethel  waved  her  parasol  as  the  little  car- 
riage went  by.  At  a  corner  where  the  street  made  a 
bend,  and  the  imposing  yellow  stone  house  which  had 
been  old  Judge  Porter's  stood  empty,  facing  both  ways 
in  its  neglected  garden,  they  turned  into  State  Street, 
the  main  avenue  of  Littelton's  commerce,  a  dirty,  ill- 
paved,  narrow  thoroughfare  without  trees,  where  the 
houses  and  shops  stood  close  together  as  they  might 
in  a  larger  town  where  space  was  precious,  but  always 
sunny,  for  it  stretched  east  and  west;  now  full  of  the 
light  and  life  and  movement  of  a  June  morning,  with 
a  jocund  west  wind  frolicing  everywhere  after  two 
days  of  rain. 

120 


IN    THE    HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS      121 

The  street  was  full  of  farmers'  wagons,  up  to  their 
hubs  in  mud  from  the  country  roads,  and  the  rough- 
laid  cobble-stones  had  been  hammered  into  the  ground 
and  covered  with  a  layer  of  black  dirt,  so  that  the  little 
phaeton  ran  more  smoothly  as  it  threaded  its  way 
through  the  traffic,  though  its  brightness  was  soon 
dimmed  by  the  greasy  mud  which  splashed  from  every 
rut  and  puddle. 

They  drew  up  at  last  before  Van  Deusen's,  the 
principal  provision  store  and  market  of  the  town,  an 
untidy  place,  with  heaps  of  roughly  disposed  fruit  and 
vegetables  blocking  its  two  narrow  doors  of  entrance, 
leaves  of  the  ever-marketable  cabbage  lying  about  the 
pavement,  with  broken  pods  of  the  first  spring  peas. 
Mrs.  Lawrence  intrusted  the  reins  to  Sylvia  and  went 
in  under  the  dingy  awnings  to  the  back  part  of  the 
store,  where  canned  vegetables,  bins  of  dusty  crackers, 
and  garden  implements  hanging  in  bunches  against  the 
walls  added  further  to  the  confusion  of  trades. 

Sylvia,  left  sitting  out  in  the  sun,  was  very  well 
pleased  watching  the  people  go  by  to  the  post-office, 
which  was  just  across  the  way.  Very  soon  Mrs. 
Chandler  and  Miss  Porter  appeared  round  the  corner. 
Sylvia  sat  up  straight  and  began  to  sparkle  and  preen 
herself,  for  she  had  conceived  an  extravagant  fancy  for 
Ethel,  and  hoped  she  would  come  and  speak  to  her 
before  she  crossed  the  street.  And,  indeed,  both  the 
ladies  stopped  at  the  curb  as  they  passed. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  your  mother?"  said  Ethel, 
smiling  kindly  at  the  pretty  child.  "Where  is  she? 
Oh,  I  see  her  talking  to  Mr.  Van  Deusen  in  the  door- 


122  IN   THE    HOUSE 

way!  Do  look  at  her,  Nannie!  Did  you  ever  see  a 
more  angelically  interested  expression,  and  yet  I  am 
sure  he  is  telling  her  nothing  more  thrilling  than  the 
price  of  spring  vegetables." 

Katherine  looked  up  from  her  examination  of  the 
little  stream  of  peas  which  was  falling  from  a  pod  to 
the  dirty  ground  in  obedience  to  an  impulse  of  the  large 
thumb  of  the  old  shopkeeper.  She  caught  sight  of  the 
little  group  outside  in  the  sunlight  and  smiled. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  making  fun  of  me  for  my  ab- 
sorption in  wretched  domestic  detail.  It  is  quite  like 
you,"  she  said  to  Ethel,  as  she  stepped  over  Sylvia  to 
take  her  place  again  in  the  carriage. 

"  Not  at  all !  I  was  admiring  your  hat ! "  replied  the 
other  flippantly.  "  Well,  Sylvia,  how  about  tennis  this 
afternoon?  I  believe  that  faithless  swain  of  yours  is 
going  to  desert  us." 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  said  Sylvia  innocently.  "  Poor  Ste- 
phen! He  has  a  horrid  examination  at  four  o'clock. 
It  isn't  his  fault.  It  makes  him  very  angry.  But  Tom 
will  play,  if  you  like.  He  has  plenty  of  time  and  he 
serves  nearly  as  well  as  Stephen." 

"  May  I  have  your  daughter  on  the  college  courts 
this  afternoon?"  said  Ethel,  turning  to  Katherine. 
"  That  infant,  Franklin  Field,  has  asked  me  to  play 
with  him,  and  I  am  getting  too  old  for  singles." 

"  O  Ethel,  you  will  never  get  old,"  said  Mrs. 
Chandler,  half-complaining.  "  Each  time  you  come, 
you  begin  with  a  new  set." 

They  all  laughed,  even  Sylvia,  who  only  half-un- 
derstood. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  123 

"  Be  sure  to  stop  in  the  garden  on  your  way  home. 
I  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  seen  you  at  all,"  Katherine  was 
beginning,  and  then  cut  herself  short  somewhat  ab- 
ruptly, driving  off  just  as  Mrs.  Loomis  arrived  on 
the  curb-stone,  after  a  perilous  passage  across  the 
muddy  street,  leaving  that  lady  panting  and  pon- 
derous and  disappointed,  looking  after  the  departing 
carriage. 

"  What  a  pity !  I  crossed  on  purpose  to  speak  to 
her.  I  wanted  to  ask  about  the  service  for  Professor 
Cochran  in  the  college  chapel  to-morrow.  It  seems  a 
bad  plan  to  give  it  any  publicity,  considering  the  man's 
past  record,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chandler  answered  somewhat  stiffly,  resent- 
ing, with  inherited  feeling,  the  right  of  the  town  to 
criticise  anything  the  college  might  think  proper. 

"  Impertinent  of  her !  What  business  is  it  of  hers 
who  the  Dean  permits  to  be  buried  in  the  college  lot?  " 
she  said  with  more  than  usual  animation,  looking  after 
Mrs.  Loomis's  receding  back. 

"  Her  escape  was  so  well-timed  that  if  it  had  been 
any  one  but  Kitty  I  should  have  believed  she  did  it 
on  purpose,"  remarked  Ethel  laughing. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Chandler  ab- 
sent-mindedly. "  Shall  you  go,  Ethel,  to  the  funeral, 
I  mean?" 

"  Not  I.  I  feel  just  badly  enough  about  it  to  run 
no  unnecessary  risks  of  having  my  feelings  lacerated. 
I  am  going  to  spend  the  day  with  the  Hetheringtons, 
at  Statesburg.  Really,  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  an- 
other funeral  in  that  college  chapel,  even  if  it  were 


124  IN   THE   HOUSE 

my  worst  enemy.  How  can  Kitty  bear  it?  I  don't 
wonder  she  is  looking  so  sad." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  hadn't  noticed  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Chandler  in  some  surprise. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  them,  till 
Ethel  began  again  rather  abruptly,  "  I  find  her  very 
much  changed." 

"  Changed !  "  echoed  the  other.  "  How  do  you 
mean  ?  Of  course  we  are  all  a  great  deal  older." 

"  Older,  yes,  of  course,  though  I  don't  mean  that. 
She  still  looks  absurdly  young  to  be  the  mother  of 
those  great  children.  And  I  have  seen  her  sad  enough 
before,  Heaven  knows!  It  is  not  that  only.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  contrast.  Do  you  remember  when  I  was  here 
last,  Nannie,  six  years  ago?  Richard  came  up,  too, 
for  a  visit,  and  we  all  renewed  our  youth  together  and 
had  such  a  good  time !  She  was  just  beginning  to  wear 
colors  again,  and  come  out  a  little,  and  there  was  some- 
thing about  her,  I  thought  then,  a  sort  of  radiance  in 
her  whole  look,  a  joy  and  expectancy,  and  yet  surprise 
that  life  could  be  just  merry  and  happy  again  after 
all  those  years  in  the  grave  with  Tom.  It  didn't  last 
very  long,  did  it?  Certainly  there  is  none  of  it  left 
now." 

"  I  remember  that  summer,"  said  Mrs.  Chandler, 
mildly  reminiscent.  "  Yes,  now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  we  have  never  been  quite  the  same  since.  It  was 
very  soon  after  that  we  began  to  notice  a  change  in 
the  dear  Dean's  health." 

"  Does  Kitty  ever  confess  she  is  worried  about 
him?" 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  125 

Mrs.  Chandler  gave  her  little  dry  giggle.  "  No, 
that  isn't  Kitty's  way.  But  you  can  see  that  he  is 
never  off  her  mind  for  a  minute." 

"  I  wonder  what  she  will  do,"  said  Ethel,  half- 
unconscious  where  she  was  following  her  thoughts. 

The  other  answered  quickly,  "  Oh,  my  dear,  she 
won't  stay  here  a  moment !  She  doesn't  really  care  for 
it  here.  Outwardly,  of  course,  she  is  all  that  is  sweet 
and  loyal  to  the  college  and  the  place  and  us,  but  she 
has  never  really  cared  for  Littelton,  never  really  taken 
root  here." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  been  too  unhappy." 

There  was  a  tone  of  reasonable  irritation  in  Mrs. 
Chandler's  voice  as  she  replied,  "  My  dear,  what  has 
that  to  do  with  it?  Every  one  has  to  be  unhappy 
somewhere,  and  for  that  matter  she  has  been  very 
happy,  too:  All  her  married  life!  Both  her  children 
were  born  here.  No,  fond  as  I  am  of  Kitty,  I  can't  help 
having  that  little  grudge  against  her.  She  never  opened 
her  heart  to  us  here  in  Littelton.  It  is  only  her  duty  to 
the  Dean  that  keeps  her  here  now." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  very  comfortably  off,"  remarked 
Ethel.  "  Of  course  Tom  could  leave  her  nothing,  but 
she  was  believed  to  be  something  of  an  heiress  when 
he  married  her." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Kitty  never  speaks  about  those 
things.  They  live  very  simply,  just  as  the  rest  of  us 
do.  But  one  can't  help  seeing  that  she  never  has  to 
scrimp  about  money  as  we  poor  people  on  salaries 
must."  And  Mrs.  Chandler  went  on  to  give  instances 
to  show  forth  a  comfortable  lavishness  in  the  adminis- 


126  IN    THE    HOUSE 

tration  of  the  Dean's  household,  which  she  herself,  with 
narrower  means,  was  unable  to  imitate. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Sylvia,  as  soon  as  the  cobble- 
stones had  given  place  to  a  sandy  road,  made  firm  and 
pleasant  for  going  by  last  night's  rain,  and  conversation 
was  again  possible  between  them ;  "  mamma,  I  want  to 
ask  you  something.  Did  Professor  Cochran  commit 
suicide  ?  " 

"  Has  any  one  said  so  ?  "  said  Katherine,  turning 
upon  her  with  a  somewhat  startled  attention. 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Sylvia  looking  down.  "  Just 
little  things,  and  the  inquest.  I  thought  there  never 
was  an  inquest  unless  a  person  committed  sui- 
cide." 

"  An  inquest  may  be  held  after  any  sudden  death, 
and  find,  as  in  this  case,  that  it  came  from  natural 
causes,"  said  Katherine  in  a  tone  that  imposed  silence 
till  she  herself  chose  to  break  it,  which  she  did  at  last 
almost  abruptly. 

"  Have  many  people  spoken  to  you  about  Professor 
Cochran  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Sylvia ;  "  only  Marjorie  and  Jimmy 
Snell  and  some  of  the  boys  just  at  first,  when  they  were 
angry  because  they  were  afraid  it  would  put  a  stop  to 
the  Commencement  ball." 

"And  you,  too?"  said  Katherine  somewhat  bit- 
terly. 

"  A  little,  mamma,  at  first.  It  seemed  so  unfair 
that  everything  should  be  spoiled  for  some  one  we 
hardly  knew.  Then  afterward,  when  it  turned  out  that 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  127 

it  was  going  to  be  all  right  about  the  ball,  we  were 
sorry  and  took  everything  back." 

"  It  would  be  impossible  for  children  like  you  to 
know  enough  about  him  either  to  praise  or  blame  cor- 
rectly," said  Katherine  in  a  tone  between  pride  and 
pain. 

Sylvia  dropped  her  eyes  and  moved  her  shoulders 
uneasily,  for  she  thought  she  was  being  found  fault 
with.  Her  mother  went  on  wistfully: 

"  You  speak  of  hardly  knowing  him.  I  suppose 
you  have  forgotten  that  you  were  ever  fond  of  him." 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  said  Sylvia,  touched  at  a  tender 
point.  "  It  was  the  boys  I  meant  when  I  said  '  we.' 
I  remember  very  well,  of  course.  It  was  he  who  gave 
me  my  set  of  Miss  Edgeworth,  and  taught  Tom  and 
me  to  shoot  at  a  mark  in  the  garden,  and  was  always 
talking  to  Tom  about  West  Point,  till  you  told  him  to 
stop,  for  it  would  make  him  discontented  with  going 
to  college  here.  Why,  it  was  only  a  little  while  ago 
that  we  all  had  such  fun  making  paper  butterflies  for 
the  Christmas-tree,  and  he  was  so  cross  because  you 
wouldn't  think  his  butterfly  as  pretty  as  yours.  And 
finally  he  made  a  great  big  one  with  black  feelers  and 
gorgeous  blue  and  gold  spots  all  over  its  wings,  which 
he  insisted  upon  putting  at  the  very  top  of  the  tree. 
Do  you  remember  that  butterfly  ?  " 

Katherine  shook  her  head.  She  had  listened  with 
a  sort  of  suspended  attention  which  seemed  trembling 
every  moment  on  the  verge  of  withdrawal,  but  she  let 
Sylvia  go  on,  uninterrupted,  to  the  very  end. 

They  stopped  at  last  before  wide-spread  lines  of 


128  IN   THE    HOUSE 

glass-houses  interspersed  with  patches  of  shining  green, 
of  plants  in  open  frames  and  flourishing  gardens — the 
nurseries  which  supplied  even  the  Statesburg  florists 
from  their  abundance.  A  boy  came  out  of  the  office 
to  hold  the  horse. 

"Are  you  coming  in?"  said  Katherine  in  some 
surprise,  as  Sylvia  prepared  to  follow  her  out  of  the 
carriage. 

Sylvia  laughed. 

"  I  don't  mind  here.  It  is  only  shops  and  errands 
I  hate  so." 

The  German  gardener  knew  Mrs.  Lawrence  well. 
He  led  them  about  the  different  houses  and  out  among 
the  bedding  plants,  confident  that  she  would  care  for 
nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  the  sight  of  hundreds 
of  little  plants  of  a  new  petunia  ready  to  be  sent  to 
market.  But  to-day,  contrary  to  her  usual  custom, 
Katherine  wished  to  see  the  cut  flowers.  From  these 
she  chose,  after  some  deliberation,  some  very  beautiful, 
dark-red  roses.  Sylvia  listened  with  mechanical  inter- 
est to  careful  directions  as  to  how  they  were  to  be  ar- 
ranged, not  stiffly  in  a  florist's  bouquet,  but  in  a  soft, 
loose  bunch,  with  their  own  leaves.  But  her  interest 
suddenly  sharpened  as  she  heard  her  mother  telling 
where  they  were  to  be  sent,  and  saw  her  grandfather's 
card,  with  a  black  dash  through  the  prefixes,  given  to 
be  fastened  on  the  wire  which  was  to  secure  them. 

"  Mamma,"  she  said,  when  they  were  again  to- 
gether in  the  carriage,  "  I  thought  people  sent  only 
white  or  purple  flowers  for  some  one  who  was 
dead." 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  129 

"  So  they  do,  very  often,  but  not  always.  It  de- 
pends on  what  they  think  the  other  would  like;  and 
Wilfred  hated  funeral  wreaths,"  she  added,  with  a 
facile  use  of  the  Christian  name  of  which  she  was  evi- 
dently unconscious,  and  which  Sylvia  did  not  even 
hear,  so  eager  was  she  to  see  the  brown  mare's  head 
turned  for  the  longer  drive. 

They  had  left  the  town  well  to  the  south  of  them. 
The  road,  following  the  curve  of  the  valley,  yet  mak- 
ing all  the  time  a  sort  of  sidelong  ascent  of  one  of  its 
sloping  sides,  reached  at  last  the  brink  of  one  of  the 
insignificant  little  watersheds  of  the  pleasant,  rolling 
country.  To  the  east  was  Statesburg,  invisible  behind 
the  sand  barrens,  with  their  groves  of  gloomy  pines. 
But  there  was  a  break  in  the  roadside  to  the  west  which 
gave  a  wide  glimpse  of  the  Littel  valley,  with  the 
town  and  its  brown  spires,  and  the  tufted  trees  and 
square  tower  of  the  college  lying  half-way  down  its 
slope,  the  silver  thread  of  the  river,  winding  with  its 
islands  through  the  narrow  flood  plain.  Opposite  were 
the  broad  lines  of  hills,  the  same  hills  one  saw  through 
the  arches  of  the  elms  on  the  college  green,  but  higher, 
wider,  more  transparently  blue,  from  this  more  lofty 
vantage  ground.  The  Alban  Hills  they  had  been 
named  by  some  classic  pioneer  of  the  valley. 

Katherine  checked  her  horse  and  they  both  sat  for 
a  few  minutes  looking  widely  out  before  them  in  si- 
lence, that  strange  alembic  which  separates  and  divides, 
what  was  a  moment  before  a  unity  of  intercourse,  into 
its  own  parts,  unknown  and  unknowing,  as  if  they  had 
never  been  one. 


130  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Katharine  spoke  first,  quite  unconscious  of  the  long 
road  by  which  the  words  had  come  to  her. 

"Your  father  brought  me  here  the  first  time  he 
ever  took  me  to  drive  after  we  came  to  Littelton  to  live." 

Sylvia  glanced  swiftly  at  her  mother  from  under 
her  eyelashes  and  wondered  to  see  her  speak  so  calm- 
ly and  look  so  tranquil.  She  herself  was  always 
strangely  moved  by  any  mention  of  her  father.  All 
through  her  childhood  she  had  been  nourished  by  sim- 
ple, touching  stories  about  him,  such  as  would  amuse 
and  interest  a  little  child.  She  felt  that  she  knew  him 
very  well  and  all  about  him.  But  as  she  grew  older, 
as  she  reached  the  age  that  had  been  her  mother's  when 
her  father  first  came  into  her  life,  she  had  become 
vaguely  suspicious  of  all  this  surface  intimacy  so 
freely  bestowed  upon  her.  She  longed  to  know  more 
— more  than  Katherine,  in  her  shy  reserve,  could  ever 
tell  her  of  her  joy  and  of  her  sorrow.  And  now,  as 
she  heard  her  mother  speak  so  simply  of  what  was  so 
soon  to  be  such  utter  loss  and  desolation,  she  strained 
to  touch  the  anguish  which  must  so  often  have  dimmed 
and  stained  those  eyes,  now  so  gravely,  purely  blue 
under  the  arches  of  their  white  lids,  feeling  no  comfort 
that  it  was  long  ago,  that  time  had  done  away  the  sharp- 
ness of  regret,  for  it  was  the  past  itself  she  demanded — 
the  inexorable  past.  She  felt  that  she  would  have 
given  her  very  breath  if,  by  some  necromancy,  she 
could  bring  back  the  moment  of  that  first  drive  to- 
gether, hold  those  two  who  loved  each  other  suspended 
here  on  the  verge  of  the  sunny  valley  forever,  out  of 
the  power  of  the  impending  disaster;  forbid  the  little 


OE   HER   FRIENDS  131 

river  ever  to  rise  above  its  shallow  banks  and  over- 
whelm them  with  its  yellow,  separating  flood ;  she  her- 
self might  never  be  born,  but  she  hardly  felt  the  pang 
of  her  own  annihilation,  for,  by  a  strange  dual  con- 
sciousness, she  seemed  to  have  possession  in  that  golden 
moment,  in  virtue  of  her  own  deep  love  and  her  father's 
love  for  her  mother. 

The  mare,  feeling  her  head  turned  toward  home, 
set  off  at  a  good  trot  down  the  gradual  incline,  pulling 
a  little  against  her  mistress's  steady  hands,  flirting  bits 
of  the  soft,  sandy  soil  into  the  carriage  in  her  long,  free 
gait.  But  her  pace  slackened  somewhat  as  they  came 
to  a  rise  in  the  road,  and  then  Sylvia,  feeling  all  at  once 
very  sad  and  lonely  and  far  away,  put  both  hands 
on  her  mother's  arm,  all  tense  and  firm  from  driving. 
The  jealous,  human  child  was  dominant  in  her  again 
and  demanded  satisfaction. 

"  O  mamma,  if  he  had  lived  you  wouldn't  have 
loved  me  so  much !  "  she  cried. 

Katherine  disengaged  herself  and  drew  quite  away 
to  the  other  side  of  the  carriage. 

"  Who — what  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  said,  almost 
fiercely.  Then,  seeing  the  child's  dismayed  and  wist- 
ful eyes,  she  caught  herself  together  again,  though  still 
trembling  from  that  first  touch  of  a  little,  soft  hand 
against  her  privacy. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Sylvia!  "  she  said  impatiently;  and 
Sylvia  was  silent,  not  sulky,  but  sorrowful  and  abashed, 
drooping  a  little  in  her  corner  of  the  carriage.  Kath- 
erine turned  upon  her  suddenly  with  one  of  her  sweet, 
sidelong  glances. 


132    IN    THE    HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS 

"  Shall  we  take  the  short  cut  through  College  Lane  ? 
Perhaps  we  shall  find  some  columbine  in  bloom." 

"  O  mamma,"  cried  Sylvia,  between  laughing  and 
crying,  in  the  sense  that  a  base  advantage  was  being 
taken  of  her  injured  feelings,  "  you  always  get  the 
better  of  me!  You  know  if  we  find  any  you  will  ask 
me  to  get  out  and  pick  it  for  you,  and  I  shan't  be  able 
to  resist  you,  though  picking  flowers  is  the  thing  I  hate 
most  in  the  world." 


XIV 

WHEN  the  tennis  players  stopped  in  the  Dean's 
garden  on  their  way  back  from  the  courts 
that  afternoon  Sylvia  found  Stephen  with  her  mother. 

"  How  did  you  get  on  ?  "  she  asked  with  indiscreet 
directness  as  he  came  to  meet  them. 

He  made  no  answer  in  words,  but  his  looks  showed 
deep  dejection. 

"  I  must  rush  home  to  dress,"  said  Ethel,  "  for  I 
am  going  to  a  tea  party  at  the  Loomis's,  all  my  mar- 
ried friends  and  their  husbands  and  Dr.  Mills  to  keep 
me  in  countenance.  Don't  you  envy  me?  " 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  have  a  very  good  time,"  said 
Katherine  with  a  polite  discretion  that  made  the  other 
laugh. 

"  Poor  Kitty !  You  are  always  so  pathetically  civil 
about  Littelton  gayeties;  but  it  is  no  good.  You  never 
take  any  one  in  as  to  your  real  opinion  of  them. 
Strange,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Field  ?  " 

Franklin  smiled  his  little,  cautious,  courteous  smile. 
He  thought  Mrs.  Lawrence  did  not  look  entirely 
pleased  by  the  sudden  attack  upon  her. 

"  Are  you  coming  with  us  ?  "  he  asked  Stephen  as 
they  turned  to  go. 

"  No,  I  am  staying  here,"  answered  Stephen  out 
of  the  depths  of  gloom. 

133 


134  IN   THE   HOUSE 

"  Poor  old  man ! "  said  the  tutor  in  a  kindly  aside 
as  they  all  walked  down  the  gravel  path  to  the  gate; 
and  Stephen,  in  reply,  muttered  between  his  teeth : 

"  That  boarding-house  table  is  more  than  a  fellow 
can  stand  when  he  is  down  on  his  luck.  I  am  glad 
to  cut  it  to-night." 

"  Well,  stop  in  my  room  when  you  come  back,  and 
we  will  have  some  '  polly '  together,"  said  Franklin 
almost  affectionately.  It  pleased  him  to  lay  aside  the 
formal  professorial  manner  with  this  senior  and  treat 
him  on  the  plane  of  equality,  as  one  man  to  another; 
not  difficult  under  the  circumstances,  for  they  were 
nearly  the  same  age. 

"  Stephen  is  going  to  stay  to  tea,"  said  Katherine 
to  Sylvia,  with  a  certain  gentle  warning  in  her  voice 
which  the  other  understood  even  as  she  rejected  it,  for 
she  had  already  made  up  her  mind  that  she  was  not 
going  to  be  nice  to  Stephen,  whatever  her  mother  said. 
It  was  really  too  stupid  of  him  to  fail  in  that  silly  old 
examination,  and  she  was  tired  of  talking  about  it, 
anyway. 

She  turned  her  brilliant,  hardening  eyes  upon  him 
as  he  sat,  dejection  in  every  line  of  his  figure,  beside  her 
mother  on  the  bench,  and  answered  with  a  kind  of 
stony  cheerfulness: 

"  Oh,  is  he  ?  Well,  I  must  go  at  once  and  change 
my  tennis  things." 

He  watched  her,  with  wide,  expressionless  gaze, 
down  the  grassy  path  between  the  cherry-trees  till  she 
was  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  to  Katherine  dumbly, 
in  such  frank,  blank,  unmodified  appeal  for  sympathy 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  135 

and  protection  that  she  nearly  laughed  in  his  face, 
though  she  was  really  very  sorry  for  him. 

"  Don't  expect  her  to  be  very  kind  to  you  this  even- 
ing, dear  Stephen,"  she  said  encouragingly ;  "  I  am 
sure  she  is  really  sorry,  but  she  doesn't  want  to  say  so." 

"  Doesn't  she  ?  "  said  Stephen  meekly. 

"  Don't  ask  her  to  sympathize  with  you  just  at 
first.  Talk  about  other  things  and  try  to  be  a  little 
cheerful." 

"  All  right,"  said  Stephen  sadly ;  and  he  seemed  to 
Katherine  almost  pathetic  at  tea  in  his  perfunctory 
attempts  at  taking  an  interest  in  Sylvia's  lively  chatter 
with  Tom  about  the  tennis  and  Miss  Porter  and  Frank- 
lin Field.  Even  Sylvia  relented  at  last  enough  to  turn 
her  starry  eyes  upon  him  and  ask,  with  something  that 
might  at  least  pass  for  interest : 

"  Was  the  examination  very  hard?  " 

Once  let  loose  he  galloped  away  madly  on  his 
grievance.  It  was  impossible,  outrageous,  a  paper  that 
no  one  could  have  passed,  no  man  in  his  class,  he  was 
sure  of  it.  He  turned  to  Tom. 

"  You  understand  how  a  paper  can  be  hard,  darned 
hard  ?  It  breaks  you  all  up,  and  yet  you  feel  you  were 
a  fool  not  to  have  made  something  out  of  it." 

Tom  nodded  as  if  he  understood  perfectly. 

"  You  must  say  to  yourself  that  you  have  no  one 
but  yourself  to  blame  for  not  grinding  harder  at  it," 
Stephen  continued ;  "  but  this  stuff !  As  soon  as  I 
looked  at  it  I  saw  I  had  no  chance.  Why,  it  was  full 
of  things  I  had  never  even  heard  of.  Electricity,  for 
instance.  My  coach  never  touched  anything  after  the 


136  IN    THE    HOUSE 

twenty-second  chapter.  We  didn't  have  time.  And  I 
know  the  diagram  of  the  path  taken  by  the  violet  and 
red  rays  in  the  secondary  bows  comes  after  that.  I 
can  show  it  to  you  in  the  book.  You  can  see  how 
unjust  that  was,  Mrs.  Lawrence?  "  he  turned  to  Kath- 
erine.  "  Remember,  it  was  only  elementary  physics, 
only  the  introduction  to  physics,  the  obligatory  Junior 
subject,  not  the  advanced." 

"  Dear  Stephen,  I  am  sure  I  should  have  found  it 
all  equally  impossible,"  said  Katherine,  stirred  as  usual 
with  mild  wonder  at  the  strangely  buoyant  quality  of 
the  average  masculine  mind,  which  permits  it  to  rise 
triumphant  through  four  years  of  obligatory  sciences 
and  philosophies,  to  float  at  last  in  the  same  limpid 
purity  of  uninformed  ignorance.  "  But  if  you  are  so 
sure  it  was  an  impossible  paper,  why  don't  you  go  to 
Professor  Brauer  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  he  was  perfectly  nasty  and  disagree- 
able. He  didn't  want  to  give  me  the  examination  in 
the  first  place,  and  I  think  he  is  tickled  to  death  that 
he  has  stuck  me." 

"  Suppose  you  go  to  the  Dean  about  it,"  said  Kath- 
erine, suddenly  grown  serious.  "  He  will  be  back  to- 
morrow afternoon.  I  am  afraid  he  will  be  very  tired, 
but  I  think  he  will  want  to  know.  He  is  very  much 
interested  in  your  getting  your  degree." 

"  Yes,  the  dear  old  fellow !  I  never  should  have  got 
as  far  as  this  if  it  hadn't  been  for  his  encouragement !  " 

"  Cheer  up,  Stephen !  It  is  nearly  yours !  "  said 
Tom,  rising  from  the  table  and  patting  him  encour- 
agingly on  the  shoulder.  "  You  hold  it  already  with 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  137 

one  hand  and  three  fingers.  One  more  finger  and  a 
thumb  and  you  have  it  fast,  so  that  no  one  can  take  it 
away  from  you !  " 

With  an  expressive  gesture,  as  if  he  felt  the  longed- 
for  parchment  even  then  in  his  grasp,  Tom  took  his 
departure  to  work  for  his  Greek  examination  at  the 
room  of  his  chum,  Bob  Merton. 

The  others  went  into  the  garden. 

"  It  is  really  too  cold,  but  it  is  so  much  nicer,  and 
grandfather  isn't  here  to  tell  us  we  mustn't,"  said  Syl- 
via disloyally. 

They  sat  on  a  garden  bench  beside  a  row  of  lilies 
all  in  bud. 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  be  open  for  Commence- 
ment, mamma  ?  "  said  Sylvia,  touching  one  of  the  leaf- 
fringed  stems. 

"  Not  if  it  stays  so  cold,"  answered  Katherine, 
shivering  a  little,  even  under  the  heavy,  clinging  folds 
of  her  long  silk  shawl. 

Sylvia  had  appropriated  another  of  her  mother's 
wraps,  which  she  especially  affected,  shimmering  and 
voluminous,  with  a  hood  in  which  she  half-concealed 
herself.  Stephen  was  enchanted  with  her,  and  she  was 
flattered  and  excited  to  see  his  querulous  depression 
change  to  a  melancholy  much  more  to  her  taste,  because 
she  felt  herself  to  be  the  cause.  She  seemed  suddenly 
older,  full  of  elusive  feminine  charm,  but  the  look  in 
her  eyes  was  not  tenderness,  rather  the  quality  of  some 
mischievous  feline  creature  who  feels  that  it  has  some- 
thing at  its  mercy  and  makes  passes  into  sweetness  only 
to  tempt  and  confuse  in  rebuff.  She  found  Stephen 


138  IN   THE   HOUSE 

easy  game.  He  put  his  head  down  at  last  on  the  back 
of  the  bench  with  his  cheek  against  Katherine's  hand 
as  it  lay  there  in  the  dusk. 

"  Nobody  is  good  to  me,  nobody  cares  for  me  but 
you,"  he  said  pathetically. 

"  Poor  Stephen !  "  said  Katherine,  withdrawing  her 
hand  to  pat  his  smooth,  seal-brown  hair. 

But  Sylvia  flung  herself  against  her  mother's  other 
side  and  drew  her  away. 

"  You  mustn't  touch  her !  "  she  cried,  looking  across 
at  him,  half-laughing,  yet  half  in  earnest.  "  She  is 
my  mother  and  doesn't  belong  to  you  in  the  very 
least!" 

"How  can  you  be  so  unkind?"  said  Katherine 
severely.  "  I  shall  send  Stephen  home  if  you  are  not 
more  polite  to  him." 

"  I  don't  care!  I  wish  he  would  go,  if  he  makes 
you  nice  to  him  and  scold  me,  when  I  am  your  child 
and  he  isn't,"  said  Sylvia  in  greater  indignation,  as  she 
saw  Stephen  and  her  mother  look  at  each  other  and 
laugh  in  mutual  understanding. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Katherine  suddenly,  as  he 
turned  away,  "  I  want  to  look  at  you !  " 

His  smiling  brown  eyes  met  hers  fairly.  The  brow 
and  forehead  were  not  wanting  in  nobility,  and  the 
mouth  and  chin  well  cut,  though  a  little  too  heavy. 
The  fault  of  the  face  was  in  the  cheeks,  which  began 
too  soon  under  the  eyes  and  extended  to  the  very  tip 
of  the  jaw. 

"  Well,  do  you  think  you  can  trust  me?  "  he  asked, 
half-laughing. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  139 

"  In  a  great  many  things,  I  am  sure  I  could  trust 
you,"  she  answered  gently. 

"  You  can  trust  my  heart.  That  ought  to  be 
enough." 

But  one's  heart  is  not  always  quite  enough. 


XV 


THAT  very  day,  as  soon  as  she  was  at  liberty  after 
the  early  dinner,  Miss  Mix  made  her  way 
through  the  afternoon  sunlight  over  the  college  green 
to  the  sealed  and  shuttered  house  which  had  once  been 
Professor  Cochran's.  On  the  threshold  she  met  Mrs. 
Brauer  coming  out.  The  two  ladies  paused  a  moment 
to  exchange  confidences.  They  had  both  been  good 
friends  to  Patty  from  the  very  first,  perhaps  from  acci- 
dent, but  perhaps  also  through  genuine  kindly  feeling. 
They  had  taken  her  part,  and  had  spread,  only  to  con- 
tradict, any  discreditable  stories  which  were  current 
about  her.  It  was  only  lately  they  had  begun  to  feel 
the  inconvenience  which  must  inevitably  accompany 
their  earlier  partisan  attitude;  it  was  only  within  the 
last  few  days  they  had  begun  to  drop  the  veil  which 
they  had  hitherto  used  so  mercifully  in  their  discussion 
of  poor  Patty's  sufferings  and  misfortunes  to  one  an- 
other. The  time  had  not  yet  come,  though  it  was  fast 
approaching,  when  they  should  feel  themselves  quite 
free  to  throw  open  to  the  world  the  spoils  they  had 
been  collecting  through  more  than  two  years  of  loyalty, 
intimacy,  and  discretion. 

In  the  mean  time  they  permitted  a  very  cheerful  crit- 
icism to  intrude  itself  even  in  the  midst  of  their  real 
kindness  and  service  for  their  unfortunate  friend — a 

140 


IN    THE    HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS    141 

very  clear  recognition  of  what  was  grotesque  and  ig- 
nominious in  the  drama  of  crude,  stupid  bereavement, 
unveiled  so  recklessly  for  their  benefit.  They  had 
found,  especially,  a  sort  of  dreadful  entertainment  in 
the  burst  of  savage  jealousy  which  drove  her  all  about 
her  husband's  study,  tossing  and  turning  the  poor 
little  things  he  had  left  behind  him,  searching  his 
drawers,  his  closets,  everything  that  had  been  closed 
against  her  during  his  lifetime;  and  wherever  she  met 
an  obstacle  in  a  slowly  turning  hinge,  a  closed  lock, 
breaking  and  tearing  and  laying  open  before  her  with 
brutal,  almost  frenzied  strength. 

"  She  is  at  it  again,"  said  Mrs.  Brauer,  in  answer 
to  the  other's  question,  as  the  one  coming  in  and  the 
one  going  out  stood  together  a  moment  on  the  steps, 
which  were  still  dirty  and  defaced  with  the  mud  of 
yesterday's  storm. 

"  Now,  I  wonder  what  she  expects  to  find  ?  "  said 
Miss  Mix. 

"  You  will  see  she  has  found  one  thing  that  hasn't 
been  any  too  good  for  her,"  returned  Mrs.  Brauer,  with 
grim  meaning,  which  the  other  acknowledged  with  in- 
quiring eyebrows  and  pursed-up  lips. 

"  She  says  it's  Dr.  Mills's  medicine,"  continued 
Mrs.  Brauer,  whereat  they  exchanged  deep  looks, 
breaking  at  last  into  a  subdued  giggle,  followed  by 
some  last  words  of  expiring  loyalty. 

"  Well,  if  ever  there  was  a  woman  driven  to  it !  " 

"  Those  who  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  blame  her 
had  better  remember  how  she  was  tempted." 

Miss  Mix  went  in  without  knocking  to  the  dis- 


142  IN    THE    HOUSE 

honored  study  where  she  found  Patty  sitting  crouched 
together  over  a  heap  of  papers  which  she  had  collected 
in  her  lap,  whimpering  softly  to  herself  as  she  turned 
them  stupidly  over  and  over.  She  hardly  noticed  her 
friend's  presence,  lent  only  a  confused  and  partial  at- 
tention to  her  efforts  to  rouse  her  to  some  interest  in 
the  next  day's  requirements.  As  for  the  Dean's  letters 
about  her  husband,  she  made  no  effort  to  take  them 
herself,  and  evidently  was  not  listening  while  Miss  Mix 
read  some  extracts  from  them  aloud  to  her.  All  her 
energies  were  absorbed  in  her  almost  mechanical  search 
of  the  little  heap  of  papers  in  her  lap.  Miss  Mix 
turned  her  eyes  upon  them  at  last  with  peering  interest. 

"Now,  where  did  you  pick  those  up?"  she  said 
curiously ;  "  and  what  do  you  expect  to  find  in  them, 
anyway  ?  " 

"  I'll  find  them  if  they  are  here,"  muttered  Patty 
over  and  over  to  herself,  in  a  rough,  half-strangled 
voice.  "I'll  find  them!" 

She  stopped  to  snatch  apart  a  little  packet,  fixing 
its  contents  with  her  turbid,  rolling  eyes,  but  when  she 
saw  nothing  but  various  scrawling,  boyish  handwrit- 
ings, bearing  a  date  of  long  ago,  she  tossed  them 
furiously  to  the  ground,  where  they  fell  and  lay  in 
the  litter  of  torn  papers,  dusty  examination  books,  and 
old  class  lists,  which  were  tumbled  about  her  husband's 
desk. 

It  was  among  this  heap,  however,  half-buried  out 
of  sight,  that  Harriet's  sharp  eyes  perceived  a  long 
blue  envelope,  one  of  many,  fastened  loosely  together 
with  a  wide  black  band.  Something  about  the  shape 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  143 

and  color,  and  the  dimly  seen  handwriting,  made  her 
glance  back  into  her  lap,  where  the  folded  sheets  of 
note-paper  Katherine  had  given  her  that  morning  still 
lay,  fresh  and  new.  The  others  were  faded,  stained, 
and  worn  at  the  edges,  yet  there  was  no  doubting  that 
they  came  from  the  same  hand. 

Any  one  who  had  been  looking  on  at  that  moment 
would  have  seen  a  powerful  change  pass  over  Harriet's 
good-natured,  coarsely  cut  face,  giving  it  a  new  sig- 
nificance, making  it  strangely  ominous  and  dangerous. 
Long  ago,  when  she  was  a  girl,  peeping  among  her 
father's  private  papers,  she  had  found  a  letter  contain- 
ing a  professional  secret.  For  days  she  had  been  stung 
by  it  in  silence,  until  finally,  unable  to  resist  it  any 
longer,  she  had  rushed  out  and  spread  it  abroad,  whis- 
peringly  at  first,  then  more  and  more  recklessly,  till 
there  was  no  one  in  the  town  with  whom  she  had  not 
shared  it.  Her  father's  reputation  never  quite  recov- 
ered from  the  stab  she  gave  it,  though  she  herself  had 
gone  about  sobbing,  swearing,  doing  all  she  could  to 
make  people  believe  that  she  alone  was  to  blame.  Yet 
even  this  had  not  cured  her  of  an  almost  insane  attrac- 
tion to  things  written  and  secret.  So  when  she  saw 
that  little  packet  of  half-hidden  letters  directed  in  Kath- 
erine Lawrence's  handwriting  to  a  man  whom  all  the 
little  world  of  Littelton  had  believed  in  love  with  her 
before  his  strange,  sudden  marriage,  she  was  at  first 
struck  dumb,  then  burned  to  possess  them,  to  seek  out 
their  contents.  Patty,  with  her  absurd,  suspicious 
jealousy,  would  have  been  only  a  hindrance  to  her  en- 
joyment. She  must  get  them  without  her  knowledge. 


144  IN  THE    HOUSE 

She  sprang  up  again,  and,  with  a  sort  of  instinct  to 
tempt  the  other  away  from  where  they  were  lying,  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  through  the  cracks  of  the 
shutters  out  on  the  sunny  green. 

"  How  well  you  can  see  from  here  to  the  ten- 
nis courts,"  she  remarked  with  assumed  indifference. 
"  There  is  Ethel  Porter  and  Sylvia  Lawrence  and  Ste- 
phen Dullas,  I  suppose,  though  I  can't  see  him.  Well, 
I  hope  Mrs.  Lawrence  may  get  him  for  Sylvia.  She 
certainly  deserves  it,  the  pains  she  is  taking." 

She  heard,  as  she  had  hoped,  a  heavy,  slow  move- 
ment behind  her,  a  slippered  tread  across  the  room; 
a  moment  after  Patty,  too,  was  standing  at  her  side, 
peering  out  between  the  slats  of  the  shutters.  She,  too, 
gazed  a  little  while  at  the  group  of  boys  and  girls  in 
their  white  tennis  flannels.  It  was  too  far  away  for 
more  than  a  confused  impression  of  life  and  graceful 
movement,  but  it  was  enough  to  shake  Patty's  dull 
lethargy  into  violent  expression  again.  With  a  hoarse, 
hysterical  shriek  she  flung  herself  back  across  the  room 
in  a  great  burst  of  clamorous,  unrestrained  weeping. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  Miss  Mix's  ministrations 
could  reduce  her  to  some  measure  of  tranquillity.  She 
was  still  hysterical  when  nurse  Wilkinson  came  in  to 
sit  with  her  a  while  before  supper,  leaving  the  other 
lady  free  to  go  back  to  her  household  duties. 

But  Miss  Mix  did  not  take  her  departure  without 
transferring  the  little  packet  on  the  floor  to  her  own 
voluminous  pocket.  It  would  have  been  safer  left 
where  she  found  it,  safer  even  in  the  hands  of  Patty 
Cochran  herself,  anywhere,  indeed,  than  in  Miss  Mix's 


OF.   HER   FRIENDS  145 

keeping,  for  that  little  lady  possessed  a  merciless,  small 
intelligence  for  her  neighbors'  affairs,  great  skill  for 
commonplace  deduction,  combined  with  a  singular  lack 
of  delicacy  and  discretion,  and  a  rapid,  racy  style  of 
narration  which  held  her  audience  almost  against  their 
will  and  made  her  an  ideally  excellent  scandal-monger. 
She  lost  no  time  in  making  herself  mistress  of  the 
papers  so  accidentally  fallen  into  her  hands. 

Ensconced  in  her  little  upstairs  sitting-room,  the 
door  closed  on  all  intruders,  she  prepared  to  make  the 
utmost  use  of  these  helpless  witnesses,  to  wrest  from 
them  all  the  secrets  of  a  relation  she  suspected  between 
people  she  disliked.  And  in  fact  it  lay  open  before  her, 
too  simply  self-revealing  to  need  surmise  or  invention 
to  supply  the  missing  links. 

The  packet  contained,  evidently,  every  scrap  of 
Katherine's  writing  that  Wilfred  had  ever  possessed, 
even  dinner  cards  written  in  her  hand,  addresses,  a 
sheet  of  note-paper  with  her  own  name  scribbled  across 
the  end,  and  every  note  and  letter  he  had  ever  received 
from  her.  There  was  the  shy,  formal  thanks  for  his 
wedding  present,  in  a  still  unformed  girlish  hand. 
There  was  also  the  first  little  note  written  him  after  her 
husband's  death,  telling  him  that  she  was  glad  it  was 
he  who  had  been  chosen  to  fill  that  place,  and  that  she 
would  see  him  if  he  came  in  the  afternoon,  ending: 
"  But  please  don't  speak  to  me  about  him,  for  I  can't 
quite  bear  it  yet."  There  were  others,  so  purely  formal 
and  conventional  as  to  be  quite  without  value;  others 
more  familiar;  a  few,  a  very  few,  that  were  nothing 
less  than  love-letters,  intimate,  tender,  more  than  ten- 


146  IN   THE    HOUSE 

der,  confident  in  a  relation  of  which  she  made  no  con- 
cealment, for  which  there  was  no  need  of  concealment 
except  her  own  inherent  shrinking  from  the  publicity 
of  discussion.  Till  the  "  Dear  Wilfred  ...  I  under- 
stand and  I  forgive.  Please  be  good.  K.  D.  L." 
Undated.  There  was  nothing  else  to  show  the  sever- 
ance of  his  marriage.  And,  indeed,  no  more  was 
needed.  Long  before  she  had  finished,  Miss  Mix's  eyes 
were  glistening  and  blinking  with  satisfied  curiosity. 

"  So  he  jilted  her !  "  she  said  at  last,  half-aloud. 
"  Well,  I  never  would  have  guessed  that !  "  She  gave 
vent  to  sudden  wide-mouthed  laughter.  "  Kitty  Law- 
rence, with  all  her  superior  airs !  Well,  I  never  would 
have  guessed  that !  "  She  said  it  again,  adding  then, 
with  new  emphasis,  as  a  new  thought  struck  her, 
"  There  are  some  people  in  this  town  whose  faces  I'd 
like  to  see  if  they  knew  it,  that's  all." 

She  returned  to  the  perusal  of  the  letters  again, 
reading  them  all  over  to  the  very  end,  pausing  long 
to  decipher  the  places  where  the  paper  was  so  yellow 
and  stained  as  to  be  almost  illegible,  chuckling  audibly 
at  any  word  or  expression  which  the  very  universality 
of  love  has  permitted  most  easily  to  be  vulgarized  by 
the  understanding  of  the  eavesdropper. 

It  was  only  after  she  had  made  herself  entirely  mis- 
tress of  their  contents  that  she  began  to  consider  what 
was  to  be  her  next  step  in  the  disposal  of  property  to 
which  even  her  facile  morality  could  not  give  her  the 
slightest  permanent  claim.  She  was  by  no  means  an 
unkind  woman  according  to  her  lights.  As  her  friends 
were  in  the  habit  of  saying  about  her :  "  She  wouldn't 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  147 

willingly  have  hurt  a  fly."  And  now,  as  she  communed 
with  herself,  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  wouldn't 
give  the  letters  back  to  Patty.  "  So  jealous  as  she  was 
of  him,  and  she  never  could  abide  Mrs.  Lawrence.  She 
might  do  some  harm."  She  even  contemplated  hand- 
ing them  back  at  once  to  Katherine.  "  After  all,  she 
has  more  right  to  them  than  any  one  else,  now  that  he 
is  dead  and  gone,  and  left  them  behind.  I  warrant 
she  will  be  glad  to  get  hold  of  them  again."  And  Miss 
Mix  laughed  again,  this  time  a  little  maliciously. 

For  a  moment  she  mused  on  her  possible  interview 
with  Katherine;  what  she  herself  would  say;  how  the 
other  would  answer ;  till  she  was  checked  by  a  pang  of 
regret  at  the  thought  of  the  too  prompt  relinquishment 
of  the  heap  of  papers  in  her  lap. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  run  over  with  them  after 
tea  to  old  Miss  Mills,  and  see  what  she  will  say  to 
them.  It  won't  do  a  bit  of  harm.  I  can  trust  her,  as 
I  would  myself,  not  to  say  anything  about  it  to  any 
one  else !  " 

This  was  her  final  decision,  but  she  did  not  get 
across  the  street  to  old  Miss  Mills.  She  was  delayed 
after  tea  in  the  boarding-house  parlor,  by  little  Miss 
Schuyler,  with  a  complaint  about  a  recrudescent  cob- 
web which  had  appeared  in  the  corner  of  her  room  for 
the  last  few  days.  Miss  Mix  listened  good-naturedly, 
even  accompanying  her  upstairs  to  be  shown  the  very 
corner  in  which  the  insect  had  made  its  lair,  that  she 
might  give  proper  instructions  to  the  housemaid  to 
seek  the  creature  out  and  kill  it  in  its  tracks  the  next 
morning.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  high 


I48  IN   THE    HOUSE 

chair  near  the  door,  her  hands  on  her  knees,  her  feet 
spread  out  to  preserve  her  balance,  and  watched  Miss 
Schuyler  fluttering  about  her  small  possessions,  col- 
lecting wraps  and  making  preparations  for  an  evening 
to  be  spent  on  the  side  piazza. 

There  is  a  certain  quality  in  every  born  story-teller 
and  scandal-monger,  an  instinctive  appreciation  for 
strange,  inordinate  effects  produced  by  contrast  on  the 
smug,  commonplace  expressions  of  friends  and  neigh- 
bors, which  no  doubt  adds  very  much  to  their  inability 
to  keep  any  piece  of  extraordinary  information  long  to 
themselves.  It  is  certain  that  Miss  Mix's  natural  in- 
clination to  impart  what  she  knew  wherever  it  would 
be  listened  to  was  increased  a  thousand-fold  by  that 
instinct  toward  the  grotesque,  fed,  in  this  case,  by  the 
obvious  incongruity  between  the  little  spinster's  bus- 
tling, innocent  activity,  and  the  effect  a  word  from  her 
might  quickly  produce.  'She  was  not  disappointed  in 
the  result.  Miss  Schuyler  dropped  her  heap  of  shawls, 
sank  into  her  easy-chair,  her  wrinkled,  faintly  tinted 
face  growing  agitated  and  confused  in  a  very  agony 
of  shrinking  curiosity. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Mix,"  she  quavered  at  last,  break- 
ing in  on  the  other's  endless  flow  of  words,  "  you  speak 
of  letters !  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  mistaken  in  their 
character?  I  cannot  believe  that  Mrs.  Lawrence,  with 
her  reticence,  her  nobility  of  nature,  her  dignity,  could 
have  written  anything  in  the  nature  of  love-letters  to 
a  married  man  like  Professor  Cochran." 

Miss  Mix's  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  mischievous  excitement. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  149 

"  He  was  not  married  when  she  wrote  them.  Do 
you  want  to  see  for  yourself?  " 

"  No !  no !  I  haven't  the  right !  Dear  Miss  Mix, 
I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  show  them  to  anybody. 
Think  of  her  sensations  at  having  her  innermost  emo- 
tions known  to  unsympathetic  outsiders !  " 

Miss  Mix  broke  into  a  great  laugh. 

"  You  needn't  look  so  scared.  There  is  no  harm 
in  them.  It  is  only  a  joke  to  think  how  quiet  and 
demure  she  kept  through  it  all,  never  giving  any  one 
to  suspect  how  she  felt  about  him.  Don't  say  any- 
thing to  any  one  about  what  I  have  told  you.  I 
wouldn't  have  it  get  back  to  Patty  for  the  world." 

She  only  waited  to  receive  Miss  Schuyler's  trem- 
bling vows  of  secrecy,  then  went  off  gayly  to  her  own 
room  to  get  her  knitting  to  take  over  to  old  Miss  Mills. 

On  the  way,  however,  she  caught  sight  of  Franklin 
Field  going  upstairs  to  his  third-story  room.  He  had 
not  been  one  of  those  invited  to  Mrs.  Loomis's  tea 
party  and  was  finding  time  a  little  heavy  on  his  hands, 
deprived  of  Miss  Porter's  sprightly  conversation  after 
tea.  He  looked  so  demure  and  secret  that  Miss  Mix 
was  filled  at  once  with  a  desire  to  confide  in  him.  Be- 
sides, he  was  a  new-comer,  more  open  to  unprejudiced 
impressions,  not  entangled  by  any  special  affection  or 
admiration  for  Katherine,  and,  moreover,  she  had  al- 
ready recognized  him  instinctively  as  one  of  those 
hybrid  links  through  which  information  can  be  most 
easily  conducted  from  one  sex  to  the  other. 

"  O  Mr.  Field !  "  she  cried.  "  Come  in !  come  in ! 
I  want  to  show  you  something !  " 


150    IN   THE    HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS 

He  followed  wonderingly  into  her  little  upstairs 
sitting-room.  It  was  some  time  before  he  came  out 
again,  to  continue  his  progress  up  to  his  own  third 
story. 

"  Don't  breathe  a  word  of  what  I've  told  you  to 
any  one,"  said  Miss  Mix  earnestly,  as  she  dismissed 
him  at  the  door.  But  he  did  that  very  evening,  later, 
when  Stephen  came  home  from  the  Lawrences,  and 
stopped  to  share  a  bottle  of  Apollinaris,  the  young 
men's  innocent  tipple  before  they  parted  for  the  night. 


XVI 

MISS  MIX  came  back  from  marketing  next  morn- 
ing somewhat  later  than  usual,  her  little  black 
silk  bag  on  her  arm,  her  bonnet  strings  loosened  so  as 
to  show  the  hole  under  her  chin,  between  her  short, 
fat  neck  and  her  ample  bosom.  She  walked  buoyantly, 
almost  bouncingly,  as  is  often  the  case  with  active,  fat 
people,  and  her  square,  downy  face  wore  a  broad  smile 
of  ample  satisfaction,  as  though  the  world  were  going 
well  with  her. 

She  was  rather  in  a  hurry,  for  she  had  been  delayed 
in  the  town  and  there  was  much  to  be  done  at  home, 
with  dinner  half  an  hour  earlier,  if  she  wished  to  be 
of  any  use  to  her  friend  Patty  Cochran  before  the  fu- 
neral that  afternoon.  But  just  as  she  was  closing  the 
gate  behind  her  she  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Brauer,  com- 
ing along  from  the  college  with  old  Mrs.  Jenkins, 
through  the  checkered  shade  of  the  maples.  Mrs. 
Brauer  was  wrapped,  as  usual,  in  spite  of  the  warmth 
of  the  day,  in  her  striped  blanket  shawl ;  the  other  lady 
was  clothed  in  shabby  black,  with  a  round  shade  hat 
to  keep  the  sun  out  of  her  eyes,  and  carried  her  head 
with  a  high,  sidelong  lilt,  which  showed  the  whole 
length  of  her  smooth,  white  face,  its  pale  eyes  and 
close-lipped,  acid  smile. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  was  the  wife  of  the  man  who  had 


152  IN    THE   HOUSE 

once  been  professor  of  engineering  in  Littel  College, 
struck  useless  many  years  since  by  paralysis,  and  re- 
tired on  half-salary,  but  still  living  in  the  cold  old 
house  which  had  always  been  his,  quite  the  other  side 
of  the  college  grounds.  No  one  saw  much  of  her  in 
the  winter;  she  was  old  and  rather  feeble  and  could 
walk  with  difficulty  over  the  slippery  roads,  but  with 
the  first  warm  day  of  spring  she  always  emerged  from 
her  little  hollow,  white  and  bloated  with  the  poisonous 
hate  of  all  things  and  persons  better  off  than  she,  which 
had  nourished  her  solitude,  but  glad  to  mingle  with 
her  kind  again,  and  eager  to  hear  anything  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  her  friends  and  neighbors.  And  though, 
bringing  with  her  as  she  did,  everywhere  and  always, 
the  blight  of  personal  grievances  and  the  bitterness  of 
fancied  wrongs,  she  was  not  a  person  anywhere  warmly 
welcomed,  still  she  was  received  with  an  anxious  and 
propitiating  politeness  arising  half  from  pity,  half  from 
fear  of  her  rancorous  tongue,  which  was  known  to 
spare  no  one  who  might  have  ever  so  little  offended  her. 

Miss  Mix  retraced  her  steps,  and  as  they  passed 
the  gate  she  was  standing  there  to  greet  them. 

"How  is  Patty  this  morning?"  she  asked  Mrs. 
Brauer,  who  might  be  presumed  to  have  just  come  from 
the  house  of  mourning. 

"  Very  quiet  and  dull,  poor  soul !  "  replied  the  other 
lady.  "  I  left  her  just  now.  Nurse  Wilkinson  was 
with  her.  She  seemed  only  half  herself.  I  don't  think 
she  has  taken  it  in  at  all  that  the  funeral  is  to  be  this 
afternoon.  Of  course  it  is  hard  realizing  it  without 
the  remains  in  the  house.  It  is  very  hard  for  her,  too, 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  153 

not  a  soul  belonging  to  her  to  keep  her  company.  I 
told  her  she  could  count  on  us,  at  least,  to  go  with  her 
to  the  chapel." 

But  Miss  Mix  answered  almost  flippantly.  Her  at- 
titude toward  her  whilom  friend  had  suffered  a  cer- 
tain disarrangement  in  the  flood  of  new  and  more 
exciting  interests  on  which  she  was  lately  become  em- 
barked. She  hardly  noticed  Mrs.  Brauer's  reply  in 
her  haste  to  exchange  her  new  lamp  for  her  friend's 
old  one. 

"  Poor  Patty !  She  would  not  be  so  quiet  if  she 
knew  what  I  carried  away  from  under  her  nose  yes- 
terday afternoon  after  all  her  trouble  of  looking  for 
them.  But  I  didn't  dare  to  leave  'em,  seeing  the  state 
she  was  in  about  it.  I  thought  I  would  just  look  them 
over  first  to  see  if  there  was  anything  to  harm  anybody 
in  them.  And  I  am  glad  now  I  did.  You  never  can 
guess  what  I  found,  and  yet  I  don't  know  why  not. 
It  stands  to  reason  that  Patty  must  have  had  some 
good  cause  for  the  way  she  always  hated  Mrs.  Law- 
rence." 

It  was  not  reluctance  or  hesitation  to  impart  all 
she  knew  to  these  two  fresh  recipients  of  this  last  ex- 
quisite piece  of  gossip;  it  was  nothing  more  than  the 
natural  instinct  of  a  story-teller  that  made  Miss  Mix 
stop  and  draw  breath  a  moment  before  proceeding. 
When  she  began  again  her  voice  had  dropped  to  the 
veiled  accents  of  the  professional  violator  of  secrets, 
and  the  others  only  had  to  draw  a  little  nearer  to  hear 
the  extreme  limit  of  what  she  had  to  tell.  As  she  lis- 
tened Mrs.  Brauer's  pale,  triangular  countenance  began 


154  IN    THE   HOUSE 

to  twitch  nervously  in  the  strain  of  her  various  emo- 
tions— crude  surprise,  gratified  animosity  for  a  woman 
who  had  stirred  her  thin  blood  once  or  twice,  however 
involuntarily,  with  vulgar  jealousy,  and  then  a  flame 
of  excitement,  a  light  of  mean,  clear-sighted  convic- 
tion which  brushed  the  other's  clumsy  conclusions  aside 
as  if  they  were  cobwebs.  Her  words  broke  in,  at  last, 
harsh  and  rancorous  across  Miss  Mix's  excited  volu- 
bility. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  was  ready  to  take  him  ? 
With  her  position  and  all  that  money?  And  still  he 
went  off  and  married  Patty,  without  a  cent?  Then 
depend  upon  it,  Miss  Mix,  there  is  more  truth  than 
Patty  would  allow  in  all  those  stories  of  how  she  got 
him." 

But  Miss  Mix  was  too  much  interested  in  the  im- 
mediate subject  of  discussion  to  be  deflected  into  vain 
surmises  about  Patty  Cochran. 

"  Take  him ! "  she  echoed,  and  began  to  fumble 
among  the  contents  of  the  little  black  bag  she  carried. 
"  Just  listen  to  this,  and  you  will  see  how  ready  she 
was  to  take  him! 

" '  You  flatter  me  by  rinding  a  hundred  things  in 
me  which  I  do  not  possess.  But  you  are  putting  your 
cleverness  to  an  extravagant  use  when  you  tell  me  you 
love  me  for  the  very  stupidest  of  my  defects,  my  help- 
lessness among  people  who  don't  understand  or  like 
me.  Wilfred  dear,  how  did  you  come  to  understand 
me  so  well  ?  You  say  it  is  your  love  for  me  that  tells 
you;  but  I  can't  quite  agree  with  you  there,  for  love 
can  be  very  deep,  yet  not  at  all  discerning.' ' 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  155 

Miss  Mix  interrupted  herself  abruptly. 

"  That  isn't  the  one  I  thought.  There  is  another 
here  that  is  much  plainer.  If  you  come  up  into  my 
sitting-room  now,  I  will  show  you  the  others.  I  have 
them  here  in  my  bag." 

Mrs.  Brauer  pressed  forward  at  once,  but  Mrs. 
Jenkins,  who  had  stood  all  this  time  in  her  usual  atti- 
tude, remote  yet  attentive,  now  made  as  if  she  would 
continue  her  way  downtown. 

"  Don't  go,  Mrs.  Jenkins,"  said  Miss  Mix  hospita- 
bly; but  seeing  the  other  would  not  be  prevented,  she 
changed  her  invitation  into  an  equally  cordial  leave- 
taking. 

"  Well,  I  shall  see  you  at  the  funeral.  Mrs.  Brauer 
and  I  are  going  to  sit  with  Patty,  but  I  shall  look  for 
you  among  the  faculty  as  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Jenkins." 

The  other  lady  drew  herself  up  and  answered  grim- 
ly :  "  Possibly,  though  we  shall  be  obliged  to  come 
early  if  we  expect  to  find  seats  in  the  reserved  pews. 
At  Mrs.  Curtis's  funeral,  if  you  remember,  my  hus- 
band was  crowded  out  from  his  rightful  place  among 
the  professors,  and  was  obliged  to  take  a  seat  in  the 
side  aisle  with  the  freshmen." 

She  gathered  her  cloak  about  her  for  departure, 
shaking,  as  it  were,  the  dust  of  the  past  insult  from 
her  sombre  skirts.  She  hated  the  Dean  because  he 
was  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  honor  and  office,  though 
he  had  been  for  many  years  her  husband's  friend,  and 
though  even  now  it  was  only  by  his  influence  and  gen- 
erosity that  Mr.  Jenkins  was  retained  on  half-salary 
in  one  of  the  college  houses,  long  after  disease  had 


156  IN   THE   HOUSE 

taken  away  his  faculties  and  made  him  incapable  of 
performing  his  duties.  She  hated  Katherine  because 
it  was  Tom  Lawrence  who  had  taken  her  husband's 
place.  And  even  death  had  not  brought  forgiveness 
for  the  imagined  injury.  These  unconcealed  animosi- 
ties, even  more  than  her  own  solitary  habits,  had  ended 
in  making  her  so  extraordinary  a  visitor  at  the  Dean's 
house  that  Katherine  might  be  forgiven  some  surprise 
as  she  came  down  the  hall,  her  hands  filled  with  flowers 
from  the  garden,  and  saw  the  old  woman  on  the  steps. 
But  Mrs.  Jenkins  addressed  her  at  once  with  an  un- 
usual degree  of  acid  friendliness. 

"  I  feel  myself  rather  faint  with  walking  through 
the  hot  sun,  my  dear.  I  wonder  whether  you  will  let 
me  come  in  and  sit  a  little  while  in  your  parlor?  " 

She  suffered  herself  to  be  conducted  into  the  cool, 
flower-filled  drawing-room,  refusing,  however,  all  of- 
fered refreshment  except  a  fan  and  a  seat  on  the  wide 
old  sofa  near  the  window.  And  Katherine  remained 
beside  her,  attending  to  her  wants  with  a  soft,  unsmil- 
ing courtesy,  not  quite  able,  however,  to  keep  a  certain 
wonder  out  of  her  eyes,  very  coldly  sweet  under  their 
wide  arches,  over  the  strange  quality  of  a  mind  which 
could  permit  this  visitor's  presence,  for  any  conceiv- 
able reason  not  an  insult,  in  the  house  of  the  man  she 
had  for  years  been  doing  her  best  to  injure  by  every 
means  in  her  power. 

It  was  Mrs.  Jenkins  who  broke  the  silence  at  last : 
"  Shall  you  be  at  the  funeral  this  afternoon  ?  " 
Katherine  drew  herself  together  with  an  air  of  of- 
fended gentleness.     There  were  so  many  things,  so 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  157 

many  obvious  things,  which  Mrs.  Jenkins  might  mean 
just  then.  She  answered  with  a  certain  deliberation: 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  at  Professor  Cochran's  fu- 
neral?" 

Mrs.  Jenkins  replied  with  her  usual  acid  smile: 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  don't  think  that  I  have  come  here 
to  criticise  anything  Dr.  Lawrence  chooses  to  do  in 
this  college.  In  this  matter,  at  least,  he  has  suffered 
as  much  as  any  one  else  from  the  consequences  of  his 
indifference  to  my  husband's  advice  in  the  appointment 
of  his  successor.  No,  I  was  going  by,  and  I  thought 
I  would  stop  in  to  tell  you — "  There  was  just  a  thread 
of  hesitation  in  the  implacable  old  voice,  but  only  for 
a  moment.  "  To  warn  you,"  she  resumed,  "  that  you 
had  better  try  to  get  back  your  letters  to  Professor 
Cochran,  before  Harriet  Mix  hands  them  over  again 
to  his  widow,  or  you  may  have  difficulty  in  regaining 
possession  of  them  at  all." 

There  was  a  moment  of  almost  breathless  silence. 

"  My  letters ! "  said  Katherine.  Her  eyes  had 
grown  wide  and  strained  in  an  expression  that  had 
no  room  for  anything  but  blank,  almost  stunned  amaze- 
ment. She  made  no  effort  to  defend  herself,  to  conceal 
herself,  to  gather  round  her  the  cloak  of  her  usual 
impenetrable  reserve.  She  sat  perfectly  still,  perfectly 
helpless,  letting  Mrs.  Jenkins  drive  home  the  blow  as 
fast  and  as  far  as  she  chose. 

"  He  kept  them,  then !  He  kept  them !  "  she  mur- 
mured to  herself,  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible  in  her 
pathetic,  crushing  bewilderment :  "  I  can't  believe  it." 

"  You  had  better  believe  it,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs. 


158  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Jenkins  grimly.  "  Mrs.  Cochran  found  them  among 
her  husband's  papers,  and  Harriet  Mix  is  now  busy 
scattering  their  contents  broadcast  through  the  town." 

But  Katherine,  though  she  remembered  it  in  its 
own  time,  did  not  even  wince  under  this  new  blow. 
She  seemed  stunned,  blinded,  incapable  of  understand- 
ing anything  else  after  the  stupendous  fact  that  Wil- 
fred had  kept  the  letters  she  had  written  him,  and  died 
without  destroying  them.  She  accompanied  Mrs.  Jen- 
kins to  the  door  with  perfectly  mechanical  formality, 
standing  blank  and  dumb  before  her  last  words  of 
leave-taking,  but  every  chord  and  fibre  of  her  being 
seemed  to  be  repeating,  voiceless : 

"  He  kept  them !    I  can't  believe  it !  " 

Mrs.  Jenkins  walked  away  with  her  long,  gliding 
step,  her  pale  face  held  a  little  higher  and  a  little  more 
sideways  than  usual.  No  one  would  ever  have  accused 
her  of  having  done  a  good  action ;  no  one  would  have 
suspected  her  of  anything  but  malicious  curiosity  in 
the  change  of  plan  which  had  made  her  stop  at  Kath- 
erine Lawrence's  on  her  way  home  that  morning.  But 
it  is  not  entirely  impossible  that  the  act  was  impelled 
by  a  kind  of  curdled  kindliness  from  a  proud,  secretive 
nature  which  had  suffered  its  own  humiliations,  who 
felt  that  another  might  be  glad  to  be  warned  in  time 
that  her  friends'  eyes  were  upon  her. 

Sylvia  running  in  a  few  moments  afterward,  from 
a  morning  spent  in  playing  croquet  with  the  small 
Brownells,  found  her  mother  standing  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  O  mamma !  "  cried  she,  "  I  just  met  Mrs.  Jen- 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  159 

kins  at  the  corner.  Has  that  horrid  old  woman  been 
here  ?  What  did  she  want  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lawrence  did  not  answer  immediately,  but 
slowly,  after  a  moment,  as  if  recalling  herself  from 
some  very  great  distance : 

"  Mrs.  Jenkins,  did  you  say  ?  Yes,  she  has  been 
here." 

She  remained  standing,  looking  dimly  in  front  of 
her,  while  Sylvia  rattled  on  unheeding,  telling  how 
many  games  they  had  played  and  who  had  won  and 
how  hot  it  was,  and  yet  how  she  wanted  to  play  tennis 
in  the  afternoon  but  there  was  no  one  to  play  with, 
because  every  one  was  going  to  the  funeral. 

"  The  funeral !  "  echoed  her  mother,  raising  her 
head  with  an  air  of  startled  interest. 

"  Yes ;  Professor  Cochran's,  you  know.  And  it 
doesn't  do  any  good  that  it  is  a  half-holiday,  for  Tom 
and  all  my  especial  friends  are  to  be  pall-bearers  be- 
cause of  the  fraternity." 

But  Katherine  had  relapsed  into  her  state  of  dreamy 
inattention. 

After  a  moment  she  went  mechanically  across  the 
room  to  the  table  near  the  window  and  began  to  read- 
just the  bowls  and  vases  of  flowers  that  stood  there, 
carefully  withdrawing  a  faded  leaf  or  flower  here  and 
there  and  putting  in  its  place  one  from  the  fresh  ones 
she  had  just  brought  from  the  garden.  Suddenly  both 
her  hands  fell  on  the  table  beside  the  flowers. 

"  I  can't  bear  it !  I  cannot  do  it !  "  she  said,  half 
under  her  breath,  with  a  gesture  of  her  head,  as  if  in 
denial  of  something  too  painful  to  be  demanded  of  her. 


160  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Then  she  went  on  quietly  arranging  the  flowers. 
Sylvia  came  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Mamma,  why  should  I  go  ?  "  she  began  again. 
"  I  hate  funerals !  I  don't  see  why  I  should  go  when 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  suppose  you  will  say 
it  is  out  of  respect,  but " 

"  No,  dear  child,"  answered  Katherine  with  a  sort 
of  expressionless  gentleness,  "  there  is  no  reason  for 
your  going  if  you  don't  wish  it." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  somewhat  disappointed 
at  having  her  grievance  thus  rudely  snatched  away 
from  her. 

Katherine  was  gathering  up  the  fragments  of  stems 
and  fallen  petals  which  littered  the  table  where  she  had 
been  rearranging  the  vases.  She  went  on  with  her 
occupation  for  a  few  seconds  without  answering. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  quite  without  emphasis  or 
comment. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I'd  better  go  too,  then,"  said  Syl- 
via, grumbling.  "  Marjorie  is,  and  there  will  be  noth- 
ing else  to  do." 

But  Katherine  had  gone  out  of  the  room,  carrying 
her  little  heap  of  fragments  with  her.  She  came  back 
almost  immediately. 

"  Sylvia,  have  you  gone  upstairs  ?  Don't  take  off 
your  hat,  I  want  you  to  carry  a  note  for  me  down  to 
Miss  Mix's." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  said  Sylvia  absently.  She  had 
found  a  new  magazine  and  was  so  absorbed  in  its  con- 
tents that  she  did  not  notice  how  long  a  time  went  by 
before  she  was  roused  by  a  sudden  movement  from  her 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  161 

mother,  who  had  been  writing  at  the  Dean's  table. 
She  now  arose  to  her  feet,  tearing  decisively  and 
crumpling  together  in  her  hand  the  letter  she  had  just 
finished. 

"  It  is  no  use !  I  can't !  It  has  to  go  without," 
she  said  half  under  her  breath.  "  Never  mind,  Sylvia, 
it  doesn't  matter  about  the  message." 


XVII 

IT  was  one  of  those  beautiful,  brilliant  afternoons 
when  the  sky  seems  especially  blue  and  boundless, 
and  the  great,  sailing  white  clouds  cast  moving  shad- 
ows on  the  waving  grass  in  the  meadows,  when  the 
air  is  full  of  the  perfume  of  uncut  hay,  when  all  the 
summer  can  still  be  felt  rushing  up  the  circle  of  the 
year  toward  that  brief,  perfect  moment  that  precedes 
and  ushers  in  its  slow  decay.  The  life  of  the  season 
went  on  inexorably,  but  the  life  of  the  college  had 
paused  just  this  one  afternoon,  in  virtue  of  its  human- 
ity, to  pay  its  brief,  perfunctory  respects  to  death. 

The  recitation-rooms  were  closed,  the  athletic  field 
was  deserted,  the  great  bell  that  marked  the  hours  from 
the  squat  tower  of  the  library  tolled  now  to  assemble 
the  students  to  the  college  chapel,  toward  which  came 
from  all  directions  little  groups  of  young  men  who 
were  still  laughing  and  murmuring  to  one  another  in 
subdued  voices  as  they  jostled  into  position  in  the  long 
black  line  that  was  gradually  lengthening  outside. 

Within,  the  seats  reserved  for  the  faculty  and  their 
families  were  rapidly  filling  up.  Sylvia,  sitting  beside 
her  mother  in  the  Dean's  pew,  very  near  the  front, 
looked  round  her  furtively,  with  half-awed  curiosity. 
The  interior  of  the  chapel  looked  somehow  strange  and 
unfamiliar,  with  its  mourning  decorations  of  drooping 

162 


IN   THE   HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS    163 

boughs  of  white  syringa,  white  June  lilies,  and  the 
great,  handsome  wreath  sent  by  the  Adelphic  Society, 
of  which  Wilfred  Cochran  had  been  a  member.  As 
her  eyes  fell  upon  this  last,  her  mother's  words,  half- 
heard  and  half-forgotten,  came  back  to  her :  "  Wilfred 
hated  funeral  wreaths,"  and  she  was  stirred  with  dim 
wonder  where  all  that  part  of  him  was  gone  which  had 
hated  and  loved  and  died  before  they  came  here  to  bury 
his  body. 

She  was  conscious  of  the  same  strangeness  and  un- 
reality in  the  faces  and  gestures  of  her  friends  and 
every-day  acquaintances  who  came  in  quietly,  by  twos 
and  threes,  taking  their  seats  near  by.  She  tried  to 
catch  Marjorie's  eye,  as  she  sat  by  her  father  and 
mother,  just  across  the  aisle,  looking  very  pretty  and 
grown-up  in  a  fresh  lilac  muslin  and  a  black  hat  with 
a  long,  curling  feather.  But  Marjorie  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  straight  in  front  of  her,  with  an  expression  al- 
most rigid  in  its  solemn,  decorous  expectancy,  and 
would  not  return  her  glance. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  and  her  feeble,  shuffling  old  husband 
had  found  a  place  to  the  left  and  a  little  behind  them. 
He  sat  silent  and  abstracted  in  his  corner,  blankly  ob- 
livious to  all  that  was  going  on  around  him,  though 
the  constant  flicker,  and  twitching,  paralytic  move- 
ment always  trembling  on  his  lips  and  eyelids,  gave 
an  air  of  strange,  fictitious  intelligence  to  the  sad,  noble 
old  mask  of  feature  which  hid  now  only  the  emptiness 
of  a  ruined  brain. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  leaned  forward  and  spoke  to  Mrs. 
Chandler.  She  then  turned  and  entered  into  a  long 


164  IN   THE   HOUSE 

and  absorbed  conversation  with  old  Mrs.  Sears  and 
her  daughter,  who  sat  behind  her.  The  sibilant  buzz 
of  her  s's  against  her  false  teeth  was  distinctly  audible 
to  Sylvia  where  she  sat,  and  ended  by  irritating  her, 
strained  as  she  was  by  the  solemn  stillness  of  expect- 
ancy all  about  her.  She  looked  at  her  mother  to  see 
if  she  also  was  annoyed  at  it,  and  finding  her  sitting 
almost  breathlessly  still,  apparently  impassive,  gazing 
straight  in  front  of  her,  wondered  vaguely  what  she 
was  thinking  of. 

Then  came  the  echoing  noise  of  many  feet  on  the 
wooden  floor  as  the  classes  filed  in,  one  after  another, 
and  took  their  places  in  the  space  reserved  for  them. 
One  after  another  the  black-coated  figures  poured  in, 
till  it  seemed  impossible  that  the  chapel  could  hold 
them  all.  The  ushers  hurried  to  and  fro,  crowding 
them  more  and  more  closely  in  the  benches.  At  last 
they  stopped  coming.  They  stood  for  a  moment  mo- 
tionless in  their  serried  black  ranks,  and  then  subsided, 
with  a  final  crash,  into  their  places. 

There  was  another  moment  of  expectancy,  till  the 
tall,  old  Dean,  in  his  doctor's  gown,  came  slowly  up 
the  aisle  with  one  of  the  city  clergymen — Dr.  Brimmer 
— beside  him.  Then  followed  a  little  delay  and  bustle, 
while  two  of  the  college  workmen  and  the  undertaker's 
assistant  hurried  to  and  fro,  making  some  alteration 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  trestles  standing  near  the 
reading-desk.  Sylvia  started  nervously  and  slipped  her 
hand  into  her  mother's,  for  she  heard  a  rustle  and  noise 
as  if  the  other  half  of  the  double  door  at  the  other  end 
of  the  chapel  was  being  pushed  open  to  let  something 


OF!   HER   FRIENDS  165 

in,  and  she  suddenly  found  herself  invaded  with  unex- 
pected, almost  choking,  agitation.  She  heard  a  sound 
on  the  wooden  floor  as  of  feet  moving  very  slowly, 
very  unsteadily,  under  some  heavy  burden.  Faltering, 
uncertain,  the  little  procession  made  its  way  up  the 
aisle,  passing  at  last  so  close  to  Sylvia  that  she  could 
have  put  her  hand  out  and  touched  them.  Tom,  Bob 
Merton,  Stephen,  and  the  other  lads  she  knew  so  well. 
She  could  hear  their  tightened  breath  and  see  them 
stagger  and  totter  and  sway  together  under  the  heavy 
weight  they  bore.  She  bit  her  lips  together  to  keep 
herself  from  sobbing,  in  a  strange,  unreasonable  re- 
sentment that  it  should  be  they  who  were  bending 
under  a  sorrow  that  was  not  their  own,  that  she  should 
have  to  shrink  and  wince  at  a  hurt  that  really  did  not 
touch  her. 

Mrs.  Cochran  followed  closely,  a  shapeless  bundle 
of  black,  between  her  two  still  faithful  supporters,  Mrs. 
Brauer  and  Miss  Mix,  who  even  in  the  midst  of  their 
attentions  to  her  still  found  time  to  cast  about  them 
glances  of  recognition,  nods  and  gestures  explanatory 
of  the  condition  of  the  principal  mourner,  as  befitted  the 
position  of  confidential  friend. 

But  when  they  had  taken  their  places  in  the  very 
front  seat,  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  great  black  coffin, 
Mrs.  Brauer  twisted  herself  round  so  as  to  look  behind 
her.  To  and  fro  over  the  well-filled  pews  went  her 
little,  peering,  thin-lidded  eyes,  till  they  stopped  and 
rested,  for  a  perceptible  moment,  on  the  place  where 
Sylvia  was  beside  her  mother.  Mrs.  Lawrence  sat  erect 
against  the  stiff  back  of  the  narrow  pew,  her  face  a 


166  IN   THE   HOUSE 

little  raised,  her  wide-open  blue  eyes  as  still  and  cold 
as  a  mountain  lake,  and  gave  no  sign  of  conscious- 
ness when  Mrs.  Brauer  looked  or  when  she  looked 
away. 

The  old  Dean's  beautiful,  thrilling  voice  began  the 
burial  service,  and  Sylvia  felt  herself  more  and  more 
invaded  with  poignant  emotion — that  touching,  wistful 
emotion  of  the  young,  which  comes  for  nothing  and 
goes  for  nothing,  that  shakes  and  thrills  and  moves 
often  to  passionate  tears,  that  has  no  certain  cure  be- 
cause it  has  no  reason.  She  was  frightened  to  feel 
herself  over  and  over  on  the  verge  of  weeping,  and 
hung  her  head  low  upon  her  breast  lest  any  one  should 
see  how  much  she  was  moved.  But  her  mother,  ex- 
cept for  the  involuntary  start  she  gave  when  she  felt 
Sylvia's  fingers  close  on  hers,  sat  quite  impassive,  look- 
ing straight  in  front  of  her  with  a  gaze  in  which  even 
the  most  remorseless  scrutinizer  could  detect  no  sign 
either  of  sorrow  or  pride  or  resentment  or  regret. 
Only  a  faint,  almost  disdainful  smile  was  drawn  across 
her  lips,  like  a  veil  for  protection  between  the  vulgar, 
curious  world  around  her  and  her  own  deeply  wounded 
but  unalterable  reserve. 

The  solemn  service  went  on  to  the  end.  The  little 
band  of  youths  approached  to  resume  their  burden. 
Then  there  was  a  gasp  and  groan  of  hysterical  excite- 
ment as  Mrs.  Cochran,  who  had  hitherto  been  sitting 
dumbly,  sunk  together  behind  her  heavy  veil,  suddenly 
collapsed  and  had  to  be  supported  out  with  difficulty, 
an  unmanageable,  struggling  heap. 

"  O  mamma,  how  horrible  it  was !  "  whispered  Syl- 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  167 

via  as  she  followed  Mrs.  Lawrence  through  the  side 
door  which  gave  immediate  access  to  the  Dean's 
garden.  All  the  rest  of  the  world  was  pouring  out 
of  the  main  entrance  on  their  way  to  the  college 
burying-ground.  There  was  a  pleasant  feeling  of 
solitude,  silence,  and  repose  among  the  roses  and 
lilies  of  the  little  garden,  basking  in  the  golden  light 
of  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  sank  down  into  the  Dean's  loung- 
ing-chair  and  leaned  her  head  against  its  sloping  back, 
closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  with  a  long  breath  of 
infinite  weariness.  Sylvia  dropped  upon  the  small  gar- 
den bench  at  her  side  and  leaned  her  arms  across  her 
knee. 

"  Oh,  if  she  hadn't  cried  and  screamed  that  way  at 
the  end !  "  she  began  again.  "  It  sounds  in  my  ears 
yet  as  if  I  should  never  stop  hearing  it ! " 

But  Katherine  sat  as  if  she  was  not  listening. 
When  she  did  speak  at  last,  it  was  with  a  sort  of  touch- 
ing irrelevancy. 

"How  blue  the  sky  is!" 

She  did  not  want  to  talk  of  what  they  had  just 
been  doing.  She  did  not  even  want  to  think,  but  just 
lie  back  in  the  great  chair  and  look  at  the  flowers  in 
her  own  garden,  and  feel  her  little  daughter  safe  be- 
side her. 

"  It  is  lovely  out  here,  Sylvia,"  she  said  almost 
plaintively.  "  Let  us  not  go  in.  Let  us  sit  here  till 
some  one  comes  to  call  us.  Look  at  that  eglantine  over 
there.  Isn't  it  wonderful  that  a  single  bush  can  bear  so 
many  flowers  ?  " 


i68  IN    THE   HOUSE 

But  Sylvia  did  not  want  to  look  at  the  eglantine 
or  be  diverted  in  any  other  way  from  talking  about  her 
late  impressions. 

"  Mamma ! "  she  began  again  seriously,  leaning 
both  elbows  on  her  mother's  knee  and  looking  up  into 
her  face.  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  they  make 
funerals  so  unnecessarily  painful.  They  would  be  bad 
enough  if  they  were  as  short  and  simple  as  possible, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  everything  is  done  to  play  upon 
one's  feelings.  Everything  happens  as  if  it  were  trying 
to  upset  one's  self-control.  It  is  as  though  they  all 
wanted  to  make  one  scream  and  cry,  as  Mrs.  Cochran 
did  at  the  end." 

Katherine  smiled  absently  down  into  the  vivid  little 
face  raised  to  hers. 

"  I  suppose  they  are  meant  to  give  one  comfort," 
she  said  at  last,  with  an  effort  of  attention,  seeing  that 
Sylvia  still  demanded  an  answer. 

"  Comfort !  "  echoed  the  child  indignantly.  "  How 
can  it  be  comfort  to  have  the  thing  that  grieves  one 
ground  in  and  repeated  over  and  over,  in  as  many  pain- 
ful ways  as  possible?  "  She  broke  off  to  begin  again 
almost  immediately. 

"  If  I  had  cared  for  him !  If  it  had  really  been  a 
loss !  Mamma,  did  it  comfort  you  ?  " 

"  Me !  "  said  Katherine,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

"  Yes.  I  mean  when  papa  died  ?  "  Sylvia  looked 
down  and  grew  slowly  pink  with  feeling. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Katherine,  leaning  back  in  her  chair 
again,  and  half-closing  her  eyes.  She  looked  up  at 
last  dimly. 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  169 

"  Perhaps  so.  It  is  very  hard  to  tell.  One  is  com- 
forted finally,  I  know,  by  little  things." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  which  Sylvia  broke 
again :  "  Mamma,  do  you  know  what  I  mean  by  the 
abasement  of  sorrow  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Katherine,  looking  at  her  with  faint 
amusement. 

"  I  mean  what  Mrs.  Cochran  was  doing  this  after- 
noon. Sorrow  ought  to  be  always  beautiful  and  stately 
and  dignified,  but  she  was  making  it  shameful." 

Mrs.  Lawrence  smiled,  a  little,  painful  smile. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Cochran !  Let  us  grant  her  the  right 
to  grieve  for  her  husband  in  any  way  she  thinks  fit." 

"  But  she  hasn't  the  right,"  said  Sylvia  earnestly. 
"  Not  as  long  as  there  are  other  wives  and  other  hus- 
bands. I  felt  all  the  time,  dear  mamma,  that  in  her 
very  presence  there,  she  was  an  insult  to  you." 

Katherine  broke  into  a  little  breath  of  laughter. 

"  O  Sylvia,  what  a  fanciful  child  you  are !  How 
came  you  to  think  that,  my  baby  ?  " 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  her  little  daughter's  hair, 
for  Sylvia  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  embarrassment. 
When  she  spoke  again,  however,  it  was  with  an  effort 
which  made  her  voice  unsteady. 

"  Dear  child,  you  have  a  habit — I  catch  you  at  it 
often — of  idealizing  what  I  may  be  feeling  at  times 
and  seasons  which  you  believe  have  painful  associations 
for  me.  You  are  wrong  in  thinking  they  always  have 
power  to  make  us  suffer  as  we  did  at  first.  Life  would 
be  unbearable  if  they  did,  for  in  time  nearly  everything 
comes  to  have  some  painful  association;  and  Sylvia 


170   IN    THE   HOUSE  OF   HER    FRIENDS 

dear,  I  don't  think  it  is  wise  ever  to  try  to  follow  an- 
other person's  sufferings  too  closely.  It  doesn't  do  any 
good,  rather  the  reverse.  It  often  unfits  you  for  the 
demand,  a  real  demand  the  person  you  love  would 
make  upon  your  sympathy.  I — you — "  She  hesitated 
desperately  before  Sylvia's  wondering  eyes,  and  they 
both  started,  and  Katherine  drew  herself  together 
quickly,  behind  the  proud  shyness  which  had  so  nearly 
let  her  go,  as  the  gate  clicked  on  its  latch  and  Marjorie 
Chandler  came  into  the  garden. 


XVIII 

MARJORIE,  seeing  mother  and  daughter  to- 
gether, stopped,  hesitated,  and  made  as  if  she 
would  have  retreated,  but  when  she  heard  Sylvia  call 
after  her  in  quite  her  usual  manner,  she  turned  back 
and  came  forward  rather  shyly. 

"  I — I  am  afraid  I  am  disturbing  you.  I  thought 
— I  wanted  Sylvia.  But  it  really  doesn't  matter." 

"  We  weren't  doing  anything,"  said  Sylvia  inno- 
cently. "  I  was  only  talking  to  mamma.  What  do 
you  want  ?  " 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  come  with  me  to 
the  Old  Woman's  Home  with  the  flowers  mamma  sent 
over  for  the  chapel." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  warm  ?  "  said  Katherine,  almost 
wistfully;  but  Sylvia,  though  without  any  great  en- 
thusiasm, had  already  scrambled  to  her  feet. 

"  I  suppose  I  might  as  well.  There  is  nothing  else 
to  do,"  she  said  with  youthful  frankness. 

"Would  you  rather  she  didn't  go?"  asked  Mar- 
jorie,  looking  at  Mrs.  Lawrence  with  a  kind  of  shy 
interest;  but  Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no.  I  only  thought  the  walk  across  the  fields 
would  be  rather  hot.  I  am  going  into  the  house,  dear." 
She  said  this  to  Sylvia,  and  went  away  slowly  across 


172  IN   THE   HOUSE 

the  grassy  path  under  the  cherry-trees,  leaving  the  two 
young  girls  alone. 

"  Doesn't  your  mother  look  beautiful?  "  said  Mar- 
jorie  with  a  sort  of  awed  respect  as  she  gazed  after 
her.  Sylvia  laughed. 

"  What  made  you  so  funny  and  solemn  to  her  just 
now?  You  are  not  a  bit  like  yourself  this  afternoon. 
Is  it  because  you  have  been  to  a  funeral?  " 

"  I  thought  I  might  be  interrupting.  I  thought 
she  might  be  talking  to  you." 

"  So  she  was,  but  that  didn't  matter.  We  always 
talk  when  we  are  together." 

"  Yes,  but  I  meant — "  The  other  hesitated  and 
grew  a  little  confused  before  her  friend's  perfectly 
matter-of-fact  manner,  concluding  at  last  rather  lame- 
ly:  "I  mean  this  especial  afternoon.  You  know  what 
I  mean,  Sylvia.  You  are  only  pretending  you  don't, 
but  there  is  no  use  pretending  any  longer.  Everybody 
knows." 

"  I  don't  know  the  least  bit  in  the  world  what 
you're  talking  about,"  said  Sylvia  bluntly. 

"  What !  Not  that  your  mother  and  Professor 
Cochran  have  been  in  love  for  years  and  years,  long 
before  he  was  married,  and  she  must  be  feeling  dread- 
fully now  he's  dead  ?  " 

"  What  nonsense !  "  said  Sylvia  angrily. 

"  It  is  not  nonsense.  I  overheard  Miss  Mix  talking 
about  it  to  mamma  this  morning,  and  I  thought  of 
course  you  had  known  all  this  time,  though  they  were 
so  surprised.  They  said  they  never  would  have  guessed 
except  for  the  letters.  Don't  you  know  about  it  ?  Then 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  173 

she  did  not  let  you  know  on  purpose.  O  Sylvia,  I 
am  sorry  I  told.  Please  don't  let  anybody  know  I 
told." 

"  Stop,  please !  "  said  Sylvia  suddenly.  "  I  don't 
believe  it,  but  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it." 

They  had  reached  the  chapel  door.  At  the  foot  of 
the  steps,  where  it  must  have  slipped  and  fallen  from 
the  coffin  in  its  slow  descent,  lay  a  bunch  of  deep 
red  roses.  Sylvia  stood  still  and  drew  in  her  breath. 
Then  she  turned  upon  Marjorie  with  a  burst  of 
passion  which  rendered  that  serious  damsel  quite 
speechless. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  tell  me  such  things.  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  Whether  they  are  true  or  not,  and  they 
are  not.  I  am  furious  with  you.  No,  don't  speak  to 
me !  "  she  cried  with  such  a  lightning  flash  that  the 
other's  words  of  self-exculpation  died  on  her  lips.  "  I 
won't  listen  to  another  word,  and  I  am  going  home. 
Please  let  me  alone." 

She  rushed  away,  leaving  Marjorie  very  much 
alarmed  at  the  effect  of  her  own  indiscretion,  but  too 
much  in  awe  of  Sylvia's  temper  to  make  any  effort  to 
follow  her. 

"  I  don't  see  why  she  is  so  angry,  if  she  doesn't 
believe  it's  true,"  she  said  plaintively  to  herself  as  she 
prepared  to  carry  out  her  mother's  behests  alone.  But 
if  she  had  understood,  she  would  have  seen  that  Syl- 
via's anger  was  all  the  fiercer  because  she  did  believe 
it,  because  she  knew  that  it  was  true.  For  Sylvia  was 
still  such  a  child  that  she  had  not  learned  to  be  hurt 
without  being  angry  with  some  one,  Marjorie  first, 


174  IN   THE   HOUSE 

and  most  openly,  because  she  was  the  nearest — the  mes- 
senger. But  deep  in  her  heart  her  anger  was  not  so 
much  against  Marjorie  as  against  the  one  person  in 
the  past  with  whom  all  anger  had  been  blameworthy, 
and  connected  with  wrong-doing  and  punishment — her 
mother.  It  gave  her  no  satisfaction  to  assert  her  right 
to  it  now,  for  every  reason  which  added  justice  to  her 
resentment  only  increased  her  sense  of  bewilderment 
and  disaster. 

She  had  turned  instinctively  to  her  grandfather's 
study,  which  she  knew  would  be  deserted  at  that  hour, 
because  she  wished  to  be  alone,  to  collect  herself,  to  try 
to  understand  all  the  bearings  of  this  new  discovery 
which  concerned  herself,  only  herself,  for  it  was  a  long 
time  before  her  simple  selfishness  permitted  her  to  reach 
conclusions  of  suffering  involved  in  it  for  any  one 
besides  herself.  Deeply  hurt,  jealous  and  humiliated 
by  the  sudden  realization  of  the  comparatively  insig- 
nificant position  she  had  held  in  her  mother's  heart, 
where  she  had  long  believed  herself  first,  as  soon  as  she 
found  herself  alone  she  could  not  refrain  from  a  burst 
of  angry  weeping.  But  she  was  too  proud  to  cry  very 
long.  After  a  little  while  she  grew  very  still,  sitting 
at  her  grandfather's  table,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  star- 
ing out  in  front  of  her,  absorbed  in  miserable,  passion- 
ate thinking,  not  sparing  herself  one  detail  of  past, 
present,  or  future  which  would  help  her  to  realize  the 
utmost  consequences  of  her  disillusionment,  as  if  in 
this  way  she  could  measure  and  grow  acquainted  with 
her  sudden  misfortune.  And  here  she  showed  her  in- 
experience, for  sorrow  cannot  be  learned  all  at  once, 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  175 

and  by  violence,  as  it  were.  Its  effects  are  never  the 
work  of  a  single  moment,  or  even  a  single  hour.  No 
prescience  of  imagination  can  tell  us  what  it  is  going 
to  be  to  us.  For  it  teaches  us  one  day  after  the  other, 
as  each  shows  us  some  things  worse,  but  others  bet- 
ter, bringing  as  alleviations  what  we  had  told  our- 
selves would  be  only  added  torture,  and  striking  us 
down  unawares  with  the  added  pain  of  things  we  had 
forgotten  to  count  in  at  all. 

So  time  passed  and  still  Sylvia  sat  alone,  uncom- 
forted,  though  more  and  more  invaded  with  youthful 
impatience  of  her  unaccustomed  state,  and  she  was 
beginning  to  wish  for  her  mother,  as  if  she  had  been 
long  parted  from  her,  though  at  the  same  moment 
she  found  herself  trembling  and  shrinking  from  the 
thought  of  ever  seeing  her  again,  when  all  at  once  the 
sound  of  voices  and  steps  in  the  outer  room  made  her 
spring  to  her  feet  and  look  about  her  for  means  of 
escape. 

But  the  Dean's  study  was  a  sort  of  cul-de-sac.  She 
had  to  stand  and  meet  the  intruders  whoever  they 
might  be,  trusting  to  her  erectness  of  attitude  and  the 
courage  of  her  lifted  head,  to  conceal  the  depths  of 
the  wretchedness  from  which  she  had  just  risen.  It 
was  her  grandfather  himself,  followed  by  Franklin 
Field  and  Stephen  Dullas,  who  came  into  the  room 
and  it  would  have  been  easy  to  take  flight  as  soon  as 
they  entered,  for  the  Dean  did  not  notice  her  at  all, 
nor  did  Stephen,  hurrying  in  after  him,  pale  and  pom- 
pous with  anxiety.  But  her  very  surprise  at  the  latter's 
disregard  of  her  presence,  caused  her  to  linger  and 


176  IN   THE   HOUSE 

hesitate,  to  find  out  what  was  the  reason  of  his  ungal- 
lant  conduct.  The  Dean  looked  worried  and  excited. 
There  were  two  spots  of  color  high  up  on  his  furrowed 
cheeks  and  deep  caverns  round  his  eyes.  He  was 
speaking  impatiently  almost  irritably  to  Franklin  as 
he  entered. 

"  Just  come  in  here  a  moment,  Field.  I  can  give 
you  those  lists  immediately,  I  believe." 

He  began  to  rummage  through  the  careful  piles  of 
paper  collected  on  his  desk,  saying  in  the  mean  time  to 
Stephen :  "  Well,  boy,  what  is  it  ?  I  didn't  understand 
you  just  now." 

Of  course!  As  soon  as  he  spoke  she  remembered. 
It  was  Stephen's  anxiety  about  his  degree  which  had 
driven  him  so  soon  into  her  grandfather's  presence, 
which  absorbed  him  so  entirely  now  that  he  could  see 
and  think  of  nothing  else.  Could  it  have  been  only 
yesterday  that  they  had  all  been  discussing  it  in  the 
garden  ? 

His  voice  had  already  risen  into  that  clamorous 
insistent  tone  he  assumed  when  he  had  a  grievance, 
his  bray,  Katherine  had  called  it  once  to  tease  him. 
The  word  came  back  to  Sylvia  now,  with  the  echo  of 
her  mother's  voice  and  made  her  heart  contract. 

"  O  mamma !  Was  it  all  pretending?  "  she  thought 
pitifully,  and  the  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  again. 

Franklin,  who  had  fallen  resignedly  into  his  usual 
attitude  of  waiting,  civilly  patient,  his  head  bent  for- 
ward and  a  little  on  one  side,  saw  her  tears  and  won- 
dered whether  he  could  tell  the  reason.  Did  she  know 
what  all  the  world  knew  ?  Did  she  resent  ?  A  girl  of 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  177 

her  age  might  easily  resent  her  mother's  interest  for 
anything  outside  herself.  He  had  always  thought  of 
her  as  very  much  of  a  little  girl,  but  this  afternoon  she 
seemed  older,  graver,  even  taller.  It  was  easy  to 
imagine  how  she  would  look  some  day  when  she  had 
left  her  childhood  behind  her.  The  old  Dean  sat  down 
in  his  leather-covered  arm-chair  listening  impatiently 
and  tapping  his  knee  with  an  ivory  paper-cutter  which 
he  had  taken  from  the  lamp-stand  beside  him. 

Stephen  stood  before  him,  still  so  absorbed  in  his 
own  distractions  that  he  did  not  yet  see  that  there  was 
any  one  else  in  the  room,  talking  so  fast  and  furiously 
that  everybody  perforce  had  to  give  him  attention. 

He  was  telling  about  his  unlucky  examination. 
Every  one  but  the  Dean  had  heard  it  before  but  every 
one  listened  while  he  told  it  again,  till  he  concluded 
with  the  words:  ' 

"  I  believe  he  intended  to  stick  me  all  along  and  is 
glad  of  it." 

"  Tut,  tut,  tut!  "  said  the  Dean.  "  Don't  talk  like 
that  to  me,  my  boy,  about  your  professors.  You  told 
Mr.  Brauer  you  thought  the  paper  very  difficult?  I 
hope  you  were  courteous,  respectful." 

Stephen  declared  he  had  been  most  courteous,  most 
respectful,  but  all  to  no  effect.  The  examinations  next 
day  were  closed  to  him  as  long  as  that  condition  stood 
against  his  name.  The  Dean  listened  for  a  little  while 
longer,  but  more  and  more  impatiently,  his  bushy  brows 
drawn  together  till  they  met  over  his  eyes.  He  inter- 
rupted Stephen  abruptly  at  last. 

"  There,  there,  my  boy.    That  will  do.    There  has 


178  IN   THE   HOUSE 

been  a  mistake  here  which  I  think  I  can  set  right.  I'll 
see  Brauer  myself  this  evening." 

"  But  will  there  be  time,  sir  ?"  said  Stephen  anxious- 
ly. "  You  know  the  lists  are  going  to  the  printers  now. 
I  have  an  examination  with  him  to-morrow  at  nine." 

"  To-morrow,  you  say,"  said  the  Dean  shrugging 
up  his  shoulders  and  running  his  eyebrows  into  his 
forehead,  and  puffing  out  his  lips  as  he  did  when  he 
was  perplexed.  But  in  a  moment  he  resumed  briskly, 
"  Let  me  see,  Field.  Haven't  you  Brauer's  list  there 
with  you  among  the  others  ?  Just  give  it  to  me  a  mo- 
ment. I  want  to  look  at  it." 

Franklin  ceased  all  at  once  from  a  reserved  de- 
tached onlooker,  to  fall  into  his  other  state  of  word- 
less futile  questioning  as  to  his  own  line  of  conduct 
in  unexpected  emergencies.  The  sheaf  of  papers  in  his 
hand  had  been  intrusted  him  by  Merritt,  clerk  of  the 
faculty,  to  take  to  the  printers.  They  were  only  for- 
mal lists  furnished  by  each  professor,  of  the  men  in 
their  courses  eligible  for  final  examinations.  But  sup- 
pose some  one  challenged  his  right  to  hand  them  over 
to  the  Dean's  inspection,  what  could  he  say  ?  " 

The  Dean  himself,  however,  seemed  to  have  no 
scruples  as  to  his  right  in  the  matter,  but  took  them 
from  his  unwilling  hand  without  even  noticing  his 
hesitation,  and  began  to  glance  through  them.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence  while  Franklin  was  still  ask- 
ing himself  whether  he  ought  to  have  relinquished 
them,  or  on  what  principle  he  should  have  retained 
them,  when  Stephen,  suddenly  perceiving  that  Sylvia 
was  in  the  room,  crossed  over  hurriedly  and  stood  be- 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  179 

side  her,  bending  down,  making  shamefaced  excuses 
for  his  absorption,  while  she  looked  up,  laughing, 
teasing  him,  though  all  the  time  vaguely  surprised  that 
she  could  hide  her  misery  under  something  so  like  her 
usual  manner.  He  soon  put  away  his  gloom,  and  began 
to  toss  his  head,  and  smile  in  his  little  caressing  way, 
quite  confident  in  his  pampered  experience  as  a  pet  of 
fortune,  that  his  cares  were  safe  on  the  back  of  some 
one  eminently  fitted  to  bear  them,  and  that  everything 
was  coming  right  at  once.  But  he  turned  with  a  dis- 
mayed squeal,  "  What  sir  ?  "  when  the  Dean  stopped 
suddenly  in  his  perusal  of  Mr.  Brauer's  list  with  an 
abrupt  exclamation — 

"  No  it  is  not  here.  His  name  is  not  here — -is  it 
Field?" 

Franklin  looking  over  the  paper  extended  to  him, 
was  obliged  to  say  it  was  not. 

"  Does  that  mean  I  shan't  be  able  to  go  up  for  the 
examinations,  sir  ?  "  cried  Stephen  trembling  again. 

"  No,  no.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  It  only  means 
a  little  delay." 

"  Delay  sir !  "  echoed  Stephen  in  alarm.  "  Does 
that  mean  another  private  paper  with  him?  Then 
I'm  done  for.  It  is  no  use.  I  can  pass  anything  the 
class  has,  I'm  sure,  but  if  he  gets  me  alone,  he'll  stick 
me  again  sure."  He  added  in  an  aside  to  Sylvia, 
"  Just  wait  till  I  get  him  outside  of  this  college  some 
day !  I'll  make  him  sorry  he  ever  hit  a  man  when  he 
couldn't  hit  back." 

Sylvia  laughed,  so  that  Stephen  did  not  hear  what 
the  Dean  said  next. 


180  IN    THE   HOUSE 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  sir,"  he  said  starting  forward. 
"  Did  you  say  I  could  not  go  with  my  class?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Dr.  Lawrence,  "  I  don't  want  to 
make  too  many  exceptions  for  you.  That  would  be 
favoritism,  which  would  never  do.  No  exemptions 
from  class  requirements,"  he  added,  with  a  specious 
air  of  judicial  integrity,  which  evidently  quite  deceived 
himself,  though  it  made  Franklin  smile  furtively. 
"  We  must  manage  it  some  other  way.  Let  me  see," 
he  went  on  meditatively.  "  If  I  had  time  ..."  draw- 
ing out  his  watch  and  returning  it  without  looking  at  it, 
"  if  I  had  time  I  should  just  run  over  to  Brauer's  now 
and  see  him  about  it  before  these  lists  go  to  the  print- 
er's. But  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late.  I  suppose  you 
want  to  go  along  at  once,  Field  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  yours,  sir,"  replied  Franklin 
softly. 

"  Well  then  I  think,"  said  the  Dean  pulling  him- 
self round  in  his  big  chair,  knocking  down  some  books 
and  papers  piled  neatly  together  on  the  stand  as  he 
reached  across  it  to  his  desk,  "  I  think,  considering 
how  little  time  we  have,  and  how  much  there  is  at  stake 
for  this  young  man  .  .  .  this  is  the  better  way."  His 
efforts  to  reach  his  desk  being  quite  futile,  he  spoke 
to  his  granddaughter  whom  he  noticed  for  the  first 
time,  "Just  reach  me  that  pencil,  child." 

She  handed  it  to  him  and  then  seeing  what  a  bad 
business  he  was  making,  trying  to  write  against  the 
soft  arm  of  his  chair,  she  offered  her  services,  half- 
mischievously, 

"  Let  me  do  it  grandfather." 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  181 

He  gave  her  the  paper  and  she  took  a  pen  and  wrote 
in  her  pretty  handwriting  across  the  place  where  Dr. 
Lawrence  had  begun  his  illegible  scrawl — "  H.  Ste- 
phen Dullas,"  amused  to  feel  Stephen's  eyes  upon  her 
and  to  know  that  he  attached  some  pleasant  sentimental 
importance  to  the  fact  that  it  was  by  her  hand  his  name 
was  replaced  in  the  roll  of  hope.  Then  they  all  started 
a  little  to  see  Mrs.  Lawrence  come  in.  She  paused  a 
moment  in  the  doorway  at  the  sight  of  other  people 
with  the  Dean,  and  Franklin  who  was  watching  her 
with  keen  interest  in  the  new  light  which  had  been 
lately  poured  upon  her,  saw  her  glance  in  a  sort  of 
startled  surprise  from  Sylvia  to  Stephen  who  had  not 
raised  their  heads  on  her  entrance  but  stood  close  to- 
gether, with  drooping  heads,  each  unconscious  of  the 
other's  embarrassment.  In  an  instant  she  had  gathered 
herself  together  again  and  came  forward  quickly  to 
greet  the  Dean  who  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  stretched 
out  his  hand  on  seeing  her  crying : 

"  Well  Kitty,  my  love,  how  do  you  do  ?  Were  you 
beginning  to  wonder  what  had  become  of  me?  " 

She  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers  leaning  against 
him  for  a  moment  as  if  for  comfort  in  the  mere  per- 
sonal contact  of  that  kind  arm,  looking  up  to  his  dim 
eyes  fixed  affectionately  upon  her,  grateful  for  the  con- 
fidence that  his  kindly  loyal  old  mind  had  no  room, 
no  interest  to  receive  any  other  thing  about  her  than 
what  he  knew  and  had  place  for  already. 

He  began  at  once  to  ask  her  about  his  lists.  Where 
were  they?  Did  she  know? 

"  Yes  of  course.    They  are  here  somewhere.    Don't 


i&s  IN   THE   HOUSE 

you  remember?  You  gave  them  to  me  to  copy  just 
before  you  went  away.  There  was  one  name  you 
were  still  uncertain  about  passing.  Let  me  show 
you,"  and  she  began  to  look  through  the  papers  he 
had  scattered  about  his  desk  in  search  of  what  he 
wanted,  and  when  she  had  found  it,  to  call  his  atten- 
tion to  some  parts  of  it  still  in  doubt. 

If  she  had  known  it,  at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice, 
Sylvia  was  quite  her  own  again.  For  a  little  while 
the  needle  of  her  affection  had  gyrated  wildly  after  its 
sudden  shock,  but  no  single  blow,  however  violent  can 
really  break  an  inveterate  habit  of  love  and  trust ;  mere 
sight  and  sound,  the  mere  resumption  of  formal  inter- 
course made  it  settle  constant  to  its  pole  again,  with- 
out tangible  reason  for  its  readjustment.  She  looked 
up  eagerly,  and  seeing  her  mother's  aspect  so  entirely 
as  usual,  defiantly  as  usual,  if  she  had  understood  as 
far  as  that,  she  felt  herself  relieved  from  a  childish 
fear  that  her  cause  for  resentment  might  in  some  mys- 
terious way  have  injured  and  disfigured  the  outward 
semblance  of  the  one  she  loved  best.  For  it  was  not 
so.  Katherine  was  somewhat  pale  indeed.  There  was 
a  certain  intensity  in  her  expression  which  made  her 
eyes  almost  poignantly  sweet  as  she  talked  to  the  Dean, 
but  there  was  no  difference  at  all  in  her  manner  to 
Franklin  as  she  gave  him  the  lists  with  a  little  laugh- 
ing apology  about  the  delay.  Then  she  spoke  to  Ste- 
phen, who  had  all  this  time  been  standing  stiff  and 
silent  almost  at  her  side. 

"  Is  it  all  right  now  ?  Are  you  quite  reassured 
about  that  condition  ?  " 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  183 

No  doubt  she  tried  to  address  him  in  her  usual 
friendly  affectionate  tone,  but  her  voice  did  not  ring 
quite  true,  and  she  turned  away  almost  before  he  began 
to  start  and  stammer  and  answer  clumsily,  with  a  kind 
of  embarrassed  flat  formality  so  entirely  different  from 
himself  that  every  one  noticed  it  except  the  Dean.  Syl- 
via in  fact  stared  at  him  openly  till  she  guessed  a  reason 
which  made  the  fierce  color  rush  up  into  her  cheeks 
again. 

"  Has  Miss  Mix  told  him  ?  Well  what  if  she  has ! 
What  difference  does  it  make  to  him  ?  What  business 
is  it  of  his  ?  How  dare  he  speak  that  way  to  mamma  ? 
How  stupid  of  him ! "  she  said  between  her  teeth. 

And  Franklin  too,  asked  with  friendly  amusement 
as  the  two  young  men  walked  away  together : 

"  Why  in  the  world  did  you  make  such  an  ass  of 
yourself?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  help  it,"  answered 
Stephen  mumblingly.  "  I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me. 
It  breaks  me  all  up  to  think  of  her  caring  for  that 
brute." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Franklin  smoothly,  "  I 
would  not  have  done  so,  I  assure  you,  if  I  had  had  the 
slightest  idea  of  the  effect  it  was  going  to  produce 
on  you.  Certainly  not  if  I  had  known  it  was  going 
to  make  you  so  outrageously  rude  to  a  perfectly  harm- 
less woman  who  was  trying  to  be  civil  to  you." 

"  Was  I  rude?  "  said  Stephen  meekly.  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  be  rude.  I  felt  so  rattled  I  didn't  know  how 
I  behaved.  Did  she  look  angry  at  me  ?  " 

"  Angry  ?    She  looked  as  if  she  thought  you  were 


1 84     IN    THE    HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS 

a  darned  fool.  Excuse  the  language  my  dear  fellow, 
but  I  know  no  other  word  for  it.  Really  you  couldn't 
have  behaved  with  a  more  unreasonable  bearishness,  if 
you  had  been  in  love  with  her  yourself,  and  outraged 
at  her  unfaithfulness." 

"  Oh  let  up,"  said  Stephen  in  a  muffled  voice. 
"  You  don't  understand.  I  have  always  stood  in  a 
rather  peculiar  relation  to  Mrs.  Lawrence  .  .  ."  he 
hesitated. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  she  ought  to  have  confided  in 
you,"  said  Franklin  softly. 

Stephen  turned  his  glassy  eyes  upon  him  and  an- 
swered out  of  his  own  thoughts,  "  It  isn't  as  though  she 
was  anybody  else.  It  wouldn't  have  mattered  with  any- 
body else,  but  I  didn't  think  she  was  that  kind  of  a 
woman." 

"  What  kind  ? "  said  Franklin  with  concealed 
amusement.  "Merely  human?  Not  good  enough  for 
a  mother-in-law  ?  Not  an  angel,  in  fact  ?  " 

"  Oh  there's  no  good  poking  fun  at  me.  I  am  not 
in  the  humor  for  it.  Besides  you  wouldn't  understand. 
You  didn't  know  her."  After  a  moment  he  spoke 
again,  mournfully  harping  upon  his  disillusionment 
with  a  kind  of  dull  wonder.  "  To  think  of  her  caring 
all  this  time  for  that  cur,  when  I  thought  .  .  ." 

"  When  you  thought  she  was  caring  for  you  ?  " 
Franklin  concluded  for  him  with  mischievous  sym- 
pathy. But  Stephen  only  answered: 

"  I  don't  expect  you  to  understand,"  and  relapsed 
into  moody  silence,  walking  with  glassy  wide-open  eyes 
as  some  one  who  looks  but  does  not  see. 


XIX 

SYLVIA  made  a  sudden  shy  movement  toward  her 
mother  as  they  all  stood  in  the  hall  together  after 
the  departure  of  the  two  young  men.  But  Katherine 
did  not  even  see  her.  She  was  looking  at  the  Dean, 
who  was  talking  buoyantly,  discounting  beforehand 
any  seriousness  she  might  find  in  the  incident  he  was 
confessing  ? 

"  Not  any  coffee  my  dear,  not  any  this  afternoon. 
In  fact  I  have  already  had  something.  I  found  myself 
a  little  done  up  after  the  ceremony  at  the  grave — noth- 
ing serious.  Just  a  momentary  dizziness.  But  Chand- 
ler, who  was  with  me,  made  me  go  into  the  house  of 
the  caretaker  to  rest.  While  I  was  sitting  there,  his 
wife,  a  very  nice  woman — she  tells  me  she  was  once 
in  service  with  my  uncle,  brought  me  a  glass  of  milk. 
That,  and  the  few  moments'  quiet  there,  quite  set  me 
up  again.  Let  me  see — "  He  stood  a  moment  with 
his  hand  on  the  newel  post  of  the  stairs,  as  if  delib- 
erating with  himself,  while  Katherine  watched  him  in 
a  kind  of  silent  intensity. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  over  and  see  Brauer 
about  those  examinations,"  he  said  at  last  reluctantly; 
his  spirit  was  evidently  longing  after  his  familiar  cus- 
tom, the  resumption  of  routine,  that  strength-giver  of 
old  age,  whose  suspension  may  bring  confusion  and  for- 

185 


186  IN   THE    HOUSE 

getfulness  to  jaded  functions,  whose  return,  more  than 
anything  else,  brings  rest.  "  I  think  it  will  do  just 
as  well  after  tea,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Better,  in  fact," 
he  concluded  speciously. 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  garden  then  ?  "  said  Kath- 
erine  with  a  little  breath  of  relief.  "  Your  chair  is  all 
ready.  Sylvia,  will  you  bring  your  grandfather's 
cushion  ?  " 

The  old  Dean  stretched  himself  out  in  his  long 
chair  with  "  Well  this  is  nice  to  be  at  home  again," 
he  said  genially,  clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands. 
"  It  has  been  the  first  really  warm  day  of  the  season. 
In  fact  I  found  it  quite  oppressive  in  the  train.  But 
toward  evening  the  air  grows  fresh  again.  Sylvia, 
child,  I  wish  you  would  run  and  get  me  some  wrap 
or  another.  I  feel  cold  just  about  my  knees." 

Sylvia  went,  not  quite  willingly.  She  had  no  es- 
pecial affection  for  her  grandfather.  She  couldn't  un- 
derstand why  other  people  thought  him  a  great  man. 
To  her  he  seemed  quite  dull  and  often  very  silly.  And 
though  he  was  a  philanthropist  in  great  matters,  she 
thought  him  a  very  selfish  person  in  all  small  things 
which  concerned  herself  or  Tom  or  even  her  mother. 
She  was  vexed  when  she  came  back  with  the  rug,  to 
see  him  take  it  and  put  it  over  his  knees  without  even 
interrupting  himself  long  enough  to  say  thank  you 
to  her.  He  had  begun  already  to  talk  about  his  own 
affairs,  on  and  on,  as  if  he  would  never  stop,  and 
now,  as  often  before  she  asked  herself  how  could  her 
mother  seem  interested  in  all  the  little  tiresome  details, 
the  endless  evidence  of  what  seemed  to  Sylvia,  petty 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  187 

vanity  in  his  accounts  of  what  had  happened  to  him. 
Yet  Katherine  listened  and  encouraged  with  an  effort- 
less patience  and  attention  which  ended  in  making  Syl- 
via almost  angry. 

"  He  thinks  she  would  rather  hear  that  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world,  and  it  is  her  fault.  She  makes 
him.  I  suppose  it  was  just  the  same  with  me.  Does 
she  never  do  anything  she  really  likes?  "  for  it  was  on 
this  point  that  all  her  hurt  feeling  had  finally  concen- 
trated itself. 

But  Katherine  was  not  pretending  an  interest  she 
did  not  feel.  On  the  contrary,  for  her  too  the  resump- 
tion of  familiar  custom  was  bringing  a  certain  peace 
and  comfort.  She  listened  gladly  to  the  Dean's  eager 
old  voice,  pouring  itself  out  upon  the  little  things 
which  she  had  learned  to  recognize  as  the  safest  salve 
for  the  deepest  wounds. 

"  I  saw  Judge  Daly  in  the  Statesburg  station,  where 
we  had  to  wait  half  an  hour  to  connect  with  the  local," 
the  Dean  was  saying. 

"  Did  you  get  anything  to  eat  ?  "  interposed  Kath- 
erine but  the  old  man  waved  her  question  aside  with- 
out answering.  "  It  was  fortunate  I  met  him  for  I 
have  been  much  exercised  about  poor  Mrs.  Cochran. 
Of  course  the  last  quarter  of  her  husband's  salary  is 
due  in  July,  but  I  wanted  to  propose  to  the  trus- 
tees to  double  it  and  allow  her  the  use  of  the  house 
through  the  summer.  Judge  Daly  seems  to  think  there 
will  be  no  opposition,  so  I  can  assure  her  of  the  addi- 
tion at  once  and  relieve  her  mind  of  mere  financial 
anxiety.  But  I  should  not  have  liked  to  do  that  with- 


188  IN    THE   HOUSE 

out  some  knowledge  how  the  trustees  would  consider 
it  in  the  state  of  the  college,  though  I  should  run  the 
risk  of  repayment  and  advance  it  to  her  myself  at  once, 
if  I  could  afford  it." 

"  That  can  be  easily  arranged,"  said  Katherine 
quickly. 

"Poor  woman!  I  must  find  out  if  she  has  any 
plans,  what  she  means  to  do.  Perhaps  I  can  help  her." 

"  Oh  do  you  think  that  is  necessary  ?  "  said  Kath- 
erine almost  in  spite  of  herself.  "  She  had  friends,  you 
remember,  who  came  to  her  aid  when  you  tried  to 
interfere  before — her  brother.  Don't  you  think  he  is 
the  best  person  to  look  after  her  interests  now  ?  " 

"  I  saw  none  of  them  at  the  funeral,"  said  the  Dean 
thoughtfully.  "  Do  you  know  anything  about  it  ? 
Have  you  seen  her  at  all,  my  dear  ?  " 

Katherine  answered  briefly,  "  No,  I  sent  her  your 
messages  through  Miss  Mix,"  and  Sylvia  breathless 
in  her  new  knowledge  of  hidden  meanings  saw  her 
mother's  face  change  and  harden  as  she  spoke  the  name. 

The  Dean  passed  on  in  serene  unconsciousness  to 
speak  of  what  he  considered  more  delicate  matters,  with 
his  usual  indiscretion  in  Sylvia's  presence.  But  it  had 
been  one  of  the  earliest  lessons  of  her  little  childhood 
never  to  repeat  under  any  circumstances  the  things  she 
heard  discussed  at  home.  This  was  the  more  easily 
complied  with  as  the  subjects  most  discussed  were  of  a 
kind  she  most  easily  forgot. 

"  By  the  way  Judge  Daly  was  asking  me  about 
Merritt,  what  I  thought  of  his  ability,  how  much  in- 
fluence he  had  with  the  faculty  and  the  boys  especially 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  189 

the  younger  alumni.  Of  course  we  all  know  that  he 
finds  fault  with  a  great  many  of  the  ways  things  are 
done  here — perfectly  permissible,  it  is  perfectly  permis- 
sible to  have  one's  own  opinions  about  one's  own  de- 
partment. But  the  Judge  insinuated  that  his  criti- 
cism, openly  expressed,  of  me  as  head  of  the  faculty 
amounted  to  something  very  like  personal  animosity. 
That  seems  to  me  an  overstatement.  I  hardly  think 
that  can  be  true  of  Merritt's  attitude  to  me,  my  dear 
Kitty,"  said  the  Dean  with  a  feeble  laugh.  The  tone 
of  wounded  feeling  in  his  voice  made  Katherine  put 
her  hand  over  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  hesitate  to  do  you  harm 
if  it  happened  in  the  way  of  his  own  advancement," 
she  said  at  last  with  a  sort  of  controlled  resentment 
which  made  her  voice  lower  than  usual. 

"  Mamma,  doesn't  your  head  ache?  "  Sylvia  broke 
in  suddenly,  moved  beyond  discretion  at  what  she  felt 
was  the  Dean's  selfish  monopoly  of  more  than  he  had 
a  right  to. 

But  her  mother  shook  her  head  and  looked  annoyed. 

"Hush,  dear!  Don't  interrupt,"  she  said  a  little 
impatiently. 

Just  then  Molly,  the  white-aproned  maid-servant, 
came  out  from  under  the  cherry-trees  with  the  evening 
paper.  The  Dean  took  it  eagerly  and  glanced  through 
its  pages. 

"  I  am  looking  to  see  ..."  he  said  and  then  broke 
off.  "  Oh  by  the  way  Kitty,  I  saw  Prentiss  in  New 
York.  He  told  me  that  appointment  for  West  Point 
which  he  offered  Tom  is  likely  to  be  vacant  again. 


190  IN    THE   HOUSE 

The  man  who  got  it  was  badly  prepared.  There  is 
little  chance  of  his  passing  the  June  examinations. 
Prentiss  asked  again  about  Tom,  but  I  told  him  the 
boy  was  contented,  and  doing  well  here,  and  that  his 
mother  didn't  want  to  part  with  him." 

Katherine  smiled,  the  resigned  ironic  smile  which 
is  all  that  is  left  us,  when  we  hear  some  one  we  love 
quoting  us  in  opinions  not  our  own  to  uphold  a  course, 
to  which  we  have  submitted  rather  than  consented. 

The  Dean  continued  his  survey  of  the  evening 
paper. 

"  Here  it  is.  Isn't  it  remarkable,  Kitty,  the  speed 
with  which  these  things  are  done  nowadays?  Here 
is  my  address  at  Cochran's  funeral  this  afternoon,  en- 
tirely reported,  correctly  as  far  as  I  can  see  by  glanc- 
ing through  it.  I  suppose  it  was  taken  down  not 
earlier  than  three  and  it  is  hardly  six  now." 

He  continued  to  scan  the  closely  printed  columns. 

"  Let  me  see.  If  I  can  only  get  my  eyes  upon  it. 
There  are  one  or  two  things  here — I  should  like  to 
hear  how  some  of  it  reads.  It  was  a  very  difficult 
subject  to  treat,  requiring  the  greatest  delicacy,  in  the 
face  of  his  unpopularity  here — deserved,  I  won't  deny 
it,  deserved,  yet  there  were  some  things  I  felt  I  must 
say,  even  at  the  risk  of  your  thinking  me  indiscreet. 
Kitty." 

He  turned  to  her  with  his  charming  smile. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  indiscreet,"  answered  Kath- 
erine rather  sadly. 

Sylvia  watched  them  both  in  a  sort  of  wonder. 
How  could  her  grandfather  sit  there  quietly  discussing 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  191 

what  had  seemed  to  her  so  touching  and  spontaneous 
when  she  heard  it  first,  as  if  he  had  weighed  it,  studied 
it,  and  questioned,  even  as  he  uttered  it,  how  it  would 
read  afterward.  She  blushed  with  anger  at  what  she 
thought  his  childish  vanity  as  she  saw  him  hold  the 
paper  at  different  lengths  while  his  far-sighted  old 
eyes  tried  to  make  it  out  without  his  glasses.  And  her 
mother,  what  must  she  be  feeling  to  hear  the  thing 
which  was  no  doubt  a  living  pain  discussed  so  coldly ! 

But  Katherine  answered  quite  simply  in  a  perfectly 
steady  voice :  "  Let  me  read  it  for  you,  sir." 

He  relinquished  the  paper  willingly,  and  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  again,  prepared  to  listen  at  his  ease, 
but  Sylvia  started  with  such  passionate  surprise,  that 
Katherine  herself  looked  up,  and  seeing  her  little 
daughter's  face  turned  upon  her,  all  flushed  and  quiv- 
ering with  sympathetic  knowledge  and  outraged  affec- 
tion, she  hesitated  and  drew  back,  struck  with  un- 
expected embarrassment.  Then  she  frowned,  as  if 
rejecting  her  own  weakness,  and  began  to  read  with 
forced  serenity.  But  Sylvia's  presence,  her  knowledge 
of  hidden  meanings,  had  made  impossible  the  task 
which  she  had  undertaken  as  not  especially  difficult, 
as  perhaps  not  without  a  certain  sad  consolation.  She 
drew  her  breath,  faltered,  repeated  herself,  began  again, 
then,  beneath  the  gaze  of  Sylvia's  wistful  eyes,  frown- 
ing but  helpless,  as  she  felt  her  breath  fail  her,  she 
stopped  altogether.  The  Dean  looked  up  in  surprise 
at  the  sudden  silence,  and  Sylvia  hung  down  her  head 
in  alarm.  But  Katherine's  voice  was  desperately  gentle 
when  she  spoke  again. 


"  Dear,  I  am  afraid  you  must  let  Sylvia  read  the 
rest  to  you.  I  shall  have  to  go  and  lie  down." 

He  began  with  kindly  fussiness  to  insist  on  being 
told  what  was  the  matter,  to  explain  that  he  did  not 
need  any  one  to  read  to  him,  to  propose  things  to  be 
done.  "  Was  it  a  headache?  The  heat  of  the  day?  " 
He  was  evidently  very  much  put  about.  But  Katherine 
answered  with  hurried  tenderness: 

"  No,  no — it  is  nothing.  I  am  only  a  little  tired. 
I  can  stay  perfectly  well,  if  you  would  rather." 

But  the  Dean  was  in  haste  to  have  her  gone.  A  nap 
would  do  her  good,  he  declared. 

"  Sylvia,  run  along  with  your  mother  and  shut  her 
blinds  for  her!" 

Sylvia  sprang  to  her  feet,  but  Katherine  turned 
upon  her  almost  fiercely: 

"  No,  Sylvia,  do  you  hear !  I  don't  want  you !  I 
want  to  be — "  her  voice  broke  and  she  caught  it  back 
with  a  sort  of  gasp — "  I  must  be  alone." 


XX 


ETHEL  PORTER  came  home  from  Statesburg 
that  afternoon,  tired  and  a  little  cross  after  a 
day's  merrymaking.  She  walked  up  alone  from  the 
station,  through  the  quiet,  tree-fringed  streets,  and  did 
not  meet  a  single  soul.  Everybody  was  in  the  house 
preparing  for  tea.  Yet  there  was  a  kind  of  laxness 
and  languor  about  the  mellow  afternoon  sunlight 
which  seemed  a  sort  of  evidence  of  spent  forces — not 
necessarily  any  more  than  those  of  the  day  itself,  but 
adding  a  certain  melancholy  reflectiveness  to  the  sum 
of  one's  own  weariness.  As  the  latch  went  click  in 
the  little  white  gate  which  opened  to  the  path  leading 
up  to  the  Greek  portico  of  the  boarding-house,  Miss 
Mix  looked  out  of  her  upstairs  sanctum  and  nodded 
a  cheerful  welcome:  "  Did  you  have  a  good  time?  " 

Ethel  raised  her  head  and  saw  the  little,  pink-col- 
ored, inquisitive  face  at  the  upper  window. 

"  Come  in  as  you  go  by,"  said  the  owner  of  the 
Greek  portico.  "  I  have  got  something  here  that  I 
want  to  show  you." 

By  this  time  her  story  was  known  to  so  many  that 
she  had  lost  even  the  appearance  of  discretion  in  her 
desire  to  outstrip  competition  in  telling  of  it.  But 
those  of  her  patrons  who  looked  closely  at  their  land- 

193 


194  IN   THE   HOUSE 

lady  at  the  evening  meal  which  followed  soon  after 
saw  a  woful  change  upon  her  cheerful  countenance, 
and,  indeed,  in  her  whole  demeanor,  as  if  some  gay 
balloon  which  had  been  soaring  all  day  in  the  sunlight 
had  been  suddenly  pricked  by  a  pin,  and  lay  in  your 
hand,  shorn  of  its  importance,  reduced  to  a  little  bunch 
of  wrinkled,  discolored  skin.  Miss  Mix  was  unusually 
silent  behind  her  tea-tray,  sniffing  a  little  now  and  then 
as  if  in  memory  of  past  emotion,  casting  deprecating, 
side-long  glances  from  time  to  time  at  Ethel,  who,  on 
her  part,  talked  more  than  usual,  so  that  the  whole 
table  was  pleasantly  enlivened  by  the  reflection  of  her 
day's  festivity  at  Statesburg.  When  supper  was  over, 
however,  after  a  few  moments  in  the  dining-room, 
where  Miss  Mix  held  her  in  a  sort  of  whimpering  con- 
versation, Ethel  did  not  delay,  even  for  the  few  minutes 
she  usually  talked  with  the  old  ladies  who  spent  the 
summer  evenings  sitting  among  the  fluted  pillars  of 
the  boarding-house  piazza,  nor  did  she  permit  Franklin 
Field's  escort,  eagerly  offered  and  frankly  refused,  but 
strolled  off  by  herself,  out  of  the  front  gate  and  up 
the  street  toward  the  college. 

"  It  is  evident  that  a  certain  little  person  we  know 
has  been  getting  something  she  richly  deserves,"  said 
one  of  the  old  ladies  to  another,  with  great  satisfaction. 

"  There  is  no  one  better  able  to  do  it  than  Ethel 
Porter,"  replied  the  other.  "  Dear  me !  It  seems  as 
if  it  were  only  yesterday  that  she  was  a  big  girl  with 
yellow  braids  down  her  back,  and  I  saw  her  shaking 
Harriet  Mix  so  hard  in  her  father's  own  garden  that 
I  had  to  step  over  and  interfere." 


OE   HER   FRIENDS  195 

Meanwhile  Ethel  was  threading  her  way  through 
the  hidden  paths  among  the  professors'  houses,  till  she 
came  by  the  back  road  to  the  open  space  behind  the 
Dean's  walled  garden.  She  opened  the  little  gate  and 
looked  in. 

There  was  no  one  there  but  Tom  and  Sylvia.  Tom 
was  sitting  on  a  low  stool,  bending  forward,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  his  hands  busily  engaged  in  weaving  and 
plaiting  together  a  few  long  blades  of  grass,  which  os- 
tensibly engaged  his  whole  attention.  Sylvia  had  flung 
herself  down  near  him,  across  her  grandfather's  chair, 
her  face  hidden  against  her  arm  as  if  she  had  been 
crying.  At  the  first  sound  of  a  new  arrival  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and,  without  even  looking  round  to  see 
who  it  was,  fled  away  through  the  cherry-trees,  while 
Tom  came  forward  slowly,  even  more  shyly  than  was 
his  wont,  still  twisting  and  twining  his  blades  of 
grass. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Ethel  kindly.  "  I  wonder 
whether  I  could  see  your  mother  for  a  moment.  Where 
is  she?" 

He  looked  more  and  more  embarrassed. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  think  she  has  a  headache.  I 
mean  she  is  lying  down  upstairs."  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  then  Tom  said : 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  her  you  are  here  ?  " 

He  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  and  she  was  struck 
with  the  wide  sweep  of  his  brows,  and  the  long,  gray 
eyes,  which  gazed  out  at  her  with  an  instinctive  sadness 
in  them,  which  was  like  his  mother's. 

"  No,  no/'  answered  Ethel.     "  I  just  wanted  to 


196  IN    THE    HOUSE 

give  her  something."  She  found  herself  stammering, 
almost  embarrassed.  "  It  is  something  of  hers,  some- 
thing Miss  Mix  found  of  hers,  and  that  I  bring  back 
to  her.  She  will  understand." 

So  did  Tom  apparently.  He  raised  his  head,  and 
his  wide,  melancholy  eyes  suddenly  melted  into  a  shy, 
almost  affectionate  smile. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  he  said  gratefully,  and  then  re- 
lapsed instantly  into  stolidity  again;  but  as  Ethel  put 
the  little  packet  into  his  hand,  she  saw  a  clear,  crimson 
color  creep  up  under  his  pale,  fine-grained  skin,  and 
show  in  his  thin  boy's  cheeks. 

"  What  a  charming  fellow !  "  she  thought  to  her- 
self as  she  went  away.  "  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have 
sent  them  that  way.  But  I  am  sure  he  is  perfectly  to 
be  trusted,  and  I  don't  believe  Kitty  wants  to  be  both- 
ered by  seeing  me  this  evening." 

Tom  went  back  hastily  into  the  house,  swung  him- 
self up  the  shallow  stairs  two  at  a  time,  and  in  another 
moment  stood  before  his  mother's  closed  door.  He 
knocked.  At  first  there  was  no  answer. 

"  It  is  I — Tom,"  he  said  in  the  uncertain  bass  of 
his  boyish  voice. 

"  Mother,  may  I  speak  to  you  just  a  moment,  at 
the  door?  It's — it's  important." 

There  was  a  soft  movement  inside,  a  slipping  of  a 
bolt  back  from  its  place.  In  another  moment  his 
mother  stood  before  him.  He  heard  her  voice  speaking 
quite  as  usual : 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me,  Tom  dear  ?  "  But 
he  saw  only  the  edge  of  her  white  gown  on  the  floor 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  197 

at  his  feet,  for  he  kept  his  head  down  low  on  his  breast 
as  he  extended  the  little  package  for  her  acceptance. 

"Mother,  this  is  yours;  Miss  Porter  left  it,"  he 
said  gruffly,  and  fled  downstairs  again,  hardly  knowing 
how  she  had  taken  it,  or  if  she  had  taken  it,  except  that 
he  felt  his  hands  empty  again. 


XXI 

THE  college  year  was  so  near  its  close  that  there 
had  come  to  be  a  note  of  finality  in  the  smallest 
details  of  its  routine,  lending  them  a  significance  and 
sadness  which  did  not  properly  belong  to  them.  There 
were  the  last  baseball  games  on  the  athletic  field,  where 
the  smell  of  the  crushed  grass  mingled  with  the  scent 
of  the  small,  sweet  cigarettes  usually  affected  by  the 
college  lads,  and  when  the  air  was  filled  with  the  shouts 
and  clamor  of  young  boys'  voices,  and  the  higher  notes 
from  the  crowds  of  young  girls  come  to  see  their  side 
win.  There  were  the  last  senior  recitations,  the  Dean's 
reception  to  the  graduating  class.  The  college  woods 
were  vocal  with  anxious  aspirants  for  honors  on  the 
Commencement  stage,  practising  their  speeches  alone 
among  the  trees.  And  there  was  a  feeling  of  senti- 
mental regret,  growing  stronger  and  stronger  among 
the  seniors  as  they  saw  the  last  moments  of  four  col- 
lege years  dropping  away  from  them.  They  went 
about  wistfully  among  their  familiar  places,  which 
would  so  soon  learn  to  do  without  them,  believing,  in 
their  simplicity,  that  others  felt  as  they  did,  that  no 
other  class  could  exactly  take  their  place  on  the  college 
campus,  or  even  in  the  recitation-room. 

A  senior  song,  without  much  poetry  but  with  a 
minor  note  in  its  refrain,  chiefly  consisting  in  varia- 

198 


IN    THE   HOUSE  OF    HER    FRIENDS    199 

tions  of  the  word  "  farewell,"  coupled  with  all  the 
places  and  persons,  and  even  studies,  they  had  loved  or 
hated  during  their  college  course,  was  always  resusci- 
tated during  this  last  term,  and  sung  to  satiety  by  the 
groups  assembled  in  the  twilight  on  the  dormitory 
steps: 

"  Farewell,  fare  you  well,  for  we  must  leave  you, 
Farewell,  fare  you  well,  jolly  old  Dean," 

sang  the  students  as  they  passed  the  Dean's  corner  in 
the  warm  June  nights.  For  all  the  sentiment  and 
activity  of  the  season  was  this  year  favored  and  en- 
hanced by  a  period  of  beautiful  weather.  Day  after 
day  rose  from  the  east  like  a  silver  bubble,  rolling  its 
way  serenely  over  the  sweet,  green  enclosures  and  gray 
old  buildings  of  the  college,  taking  a  thousand  peacock 
colors  with  the  late  afternoon,  and  vanishing  in  a  sea 
of  glory  across  the  low,  blue  hills  where  the  sun  set 
at  night;  each  day  was  a  little  warmer  than  the  pre- 
ceding one,  but  none  showed  any  signs  of  a  break  in 
the  weather  to  mar  their  perfect  sequence. 

"  What  luck !  "  said  the  seniors  to  one  another. 
"  If  it  only  lasts  through  the  garden  party,  it  can  do 
what  it  wants  on  alumni  day." 

It  was  the  characteristic  attitude  of  the  undergrad- 
uate. The  garden  party  was  their  own  affair,  a  recep- 
tion to  the  faculty  and  the  people  of  the  town  who  had 
entertained  them.  How  much  more  important,  how 
much  more  truly  a  college  event,  than  the  mere  return 
of  its  alumni  to  prowl  for  a  day  among  its  halls  and 


200  IN   THE   HOUSE 

cloisters  and  partake  of  a  banquet  in  the  college  gym- 
nasium ! 

The  day  was  lovely,  the  upper  terrace  of  the  Botani- 
cal Garden  was  crowded  with  ladies  in  festive  array, 
the  strains  of  the  little  band  of  stringed  instruments, 
hired  for  the  occasion,  sounded  gayly  from  its  hiding- 
place  in  the  shrubbery.  But  the  Dean  was  late,  and 
Mrs.  Lawrence  with  him,  at  which  latter  fact,  espe- 
cially, Littelton  society  felt  itself  aggrieved.  For  it 
had  not  by  any  means  got  over  a  thrill  of  excitement 
at  Katherine's  every  new  appearance  among  them  since 
the  discovery  of  her  letters. 

It  was  not  a  very  great  secret,  but  neither  was  Lit- 
telton a  very  great  place,  and  its  people  had  come  into 
their  possession  in  a  way  peculiarly  stimulating  to  their 
interest,  peculiarly  romantic,  as  they  themselves  judged 
romance. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  had  always  been  something  of  an 
enigma  to  them.  They  had  never  quite  liked  her,  or 
got  over  being  annoyed  at  her  unexpected  deviations 
from  obvious  rules  of  conduct.  When  she  ought  to 
have  wept,  she  remained  impassive;  when  they  wanted 
her  to  be  amused,  even  her  careful  civility  could  not 
always  conceal  her  pained  surprise ;  and  now,  when,  by 
her  age  and  position  as  a  mother  of  grown  children, 
they  had  exempted  her  from  the  mere  possibility  of 
sentiment,  they  had  suddenly  discovered  that  she  still 
had  a  heart  capable  of  passionate  feeling.  But  when 
they  looked  for  her  to  be  crushed,  overcome  by  the 
death  of  the  man  she  had  been  in  love  with ;  when  they 
scanned  her  face  for  signs  of  grief,  tears,  even,  they 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  201 

found  nothing  but  a  kind  of  strained  serenity  which 
told  them  nothing  they  could  understand,  not  even  as 
much  as  they  knew  already.  They  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  she  had  hid  herself  to  nurse  her  sor- 
row in  secret.  But  she  went  everywhere  just  as  usual. 
And  after  all,  as  the  more  reasonable  were  quick  to 
point  out,  it  would  have  been  somewhat  ridiculous  for 
her  to  stay  at  home  in  mourning  for  another  woman's 
husband,  even  after  the  other  woman,  wrapped  in  her 
ill-made  widow's  weeds,  had  removed  herself  from 
among  them  and  returned  to  the  unknown  places  which 
had  brought  her  forth.  And  then  there  was  the  doubt 
which  checked  their  sympathy  for  her  in  the  tragedy 
of  his  loss  and  death ;  there  was  always  a  chance  that, 
while  they  were  pitying  her,  she  was  congratulating 
herself  on  her  escape  from  an  ignominious  fate,  made 
visible  to  her  through  the  years  of  her  lover's  marriage 
to  another  woman.  Still,  they  could  not  be  sure,  and 
there  was  not  even  an  inner  circle  of  initiated  who  was 
any  surer,  who  could  have  satisfied  general  curiosity 
if  they  had  cared  to  do  so,  for  Katherine  had  made  no 
exceptions  in  the  deep  reserve  behind  which  she  hid 
herself  from  friends  and  foes  alike. 

What  every  one  knew  already  she  could  not  take 
from  them;  but  she  held  her  face  up  steadily  for  their 
inspection,  as  if  defying  them  to  find  there  any  further 
betrayal  of  what  was  going  on  under  the  surface,  shirk- 
ing no  occasion  of  going  among  them,  which  the  season 
and  Sylvia's  new  requirements  demanded. 

But  now  she  was  late.  Her  absence  gave  food  at 
once  for  new  conjecture.  "  Maybe  she  is  sick,"  said 


202  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Miss  Mix,  whose  deep-purple  silk  and  flowery  bon- 
net made  its  own  effect  among  the  softer  colors  of 
nature. 

"  She  was  as  white  as  death  at  the  reception  last 
night,"  said  little  Miss  Schuyler,  in  pale  gray  trimmed 
with  exquisite  old  lace.  "  My  heart  ached  for  her.  I 
was  afraid  once  that  she  was  going  to  faint." 

"  No — here  she  comes,"  rejoined  Miss  Mix,  almost 
disappointed,  "  dressed  like  a  girl,  as  usual,  though  we 
all  know  she  might  be  a  widow  twice  over  at  this  very 
minute  if  all  had  gone  well." 

Katherine  came  by  with  her  father-in-law,  who 
kept  his  heavy  old  hand  on  her  arm  as  he  stopped  and 
spoke  to  the  little  group  of  ladies,  even  Mrs.  Brauer, 
who  half-turned  aside,  and  answered  with  a  sort  of 
nasal  discourtesy  born  equally  of  dislike  and  embar- 
rassment. Then  they  passed  on,  and  with  the  best  in- 
tentions in  the  world,  those  Katherine  left  behind  could 
not  even  find  it  to  say  about  her  that  she  looked  es- 
pecially pale. 

There  was  yet  another  little  group  who  had  noticed 
the  late  arrival  with  imperfect  friendliness.  Just  at 
the  head  of  the  steps,  a  little  to  one  side,  near  the  bal- 
ustrade, there  was  an  empty,  gravelled  place  which 
commanded  a  view  of  both  terraces,  where  there  had 
been  placed  an  iron  table  and  several  garden  chairs. 
Here,  by  a  sort  of  natural  attraction,  had  gravitated 
certain  members  of  the  faculty  who  were  by  preference 
not  attuned  to  ordinary  social  events,  but  who  had 
turned  out  on  the  present  occasion  with  a  view  of 
showing  their  good-will  to  the  senior  class,  and  em- 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  203 

phasizing  their  absence  from  the  Dean's  reception  the 
night  before.  Merritt  was  there,  his  chair  swung  back 
on  two  legs,  or  even  one,  as  he  hitched  it  here  and  there 
with  his  shoulders  in  turning  to  one  or  another  of  the 
little  group  which  always  surrounded  him.  There  was 
also  Brauer,  silent  and  massive,  standing  steadily  on 
both  feet;  tutor  Wynans,  with  his  complacent,  spec- 
tacled smile,  and  very  shiny  boots  turned  up  at  the  toes ; 
and  Brownell,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  balustrade, 
swinging  his  legs  violently,  looking  all  about  him,  but 
still  finding  time  to  throw  in  a  word  here  and  there 
to  what  the  others  were  saying.  Brownell  was  a  vic- 
tim to  dyspepsia,  and  when  the  fit  was  upon  him,  he 
would  sit  among  his  fellows  for  hours,  wrapped  in  de- 
pressing, almost  leaden  gloom  and  silence.  At  other 
times  he  was  uplifted  by  a  sort  of  voluble  high  spirits, 
which  emphasized  the  hard  boyishness  of  his  blond 
coloring  and  flaxen  hair,  but  which  betrayed  the  dry- 
ness  of  his  imagination  and  the  dulness  of  his  ideas 
more  hopelessly  than  his  silences.  To-day  his  good 
temper  was  finding  its  outlet  in  a  kind  of  rough  banter 
which  took  its  point  from  his  colleagues'  known  weak- 
nesses. 

"  Did  you  find  out  why  Chandler  didn't  come  to 
the  faculty  meeting  yesterday  ?  "  said  some  one  of  the 
little  group. 

Brownell  broke  out  at  once  in  his  somewhat  unin- 
telligible gabbling  tone :  "  I  can  tell  you.  I  found 
him  afterward  in  the  library  reading  the  new  maga- 
zines. '  Why,  professor,  how's  this  ?  how's  this  ?  '  said 
I.  '  We  have  all  been  waiting  for  you  over  at  the 


204  IN   THE   HOUSE 

office  building.  Why  weren't  you  with  us  ? '  He 
pressed  one  finger  delicately  against  his  forehead 
a  moment,  and  then  looked  up  with  that  gentle  little 
air  of  his.  '  Faculty  meeting,  faculty  meeting,'  he 
said.  '  Strange,  very  strange.  It  quite  slipped  my 
memory.' ' 

It  was  a  very  bad  imitation  of  the  old  gentleman's 
quaint  mannerisms,  but  good  enough  to  make  the 
others  grin,  and  Merritt  burst  into  a  short,  angry 
laugh. 

"And  that  man  draws  a  bigger  salary  than  you 
do,  Wynans,"  he  said,  turning  his  chair  toward  the 
spectacled  tutor  of  history.  "  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
the  college  is  going  to  wreck  and  ruin  ?  " 

"  How  about  that  protest  to  the  trustees,  Merritt  ?  " 
said  Brownell,  breaking  into  noisy  laughter.  "  Has 
it  made  a  good  impression?  I  have  heard  nothing  of 
it  myself,  but  you  may  have  had  some  indirect  com- 
munication with  that  august  body."  He  was  not  sur- 
prised to  see  Merritt  burst  into  a  rage. 

"  Oh,  the  trustees !  I  have  my  own  opinion  of  the 
trustees!  Bribed  to  a  man,  bribed  to  the  last  man — 
that  scoundrelly  politician,  Henry  Dullas,  with  this 
honorary  degree  that  we  are  ordered  to  bestow  upon 
him — a  degree  he  is  no  more  fit  for  than  his  young 
jackanapes  of  a  son  is  for  the  B.A.  the  college  gives 
him  this  Commencement.  At  least  I  suppose  we  do. 
I  see  his  name  up  on  the  board,  though  I  never  un- 
derstood how  he  came  out  with  that  condition  in 
physics,  Brauer.  I  thought  you  had  decided  to  debar 
him?" 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  205 

That  placid  gentleman  began  to  show  signs  of  em- 
barrassment. 

"  Such  had  been  my  intention.  He  was  debarred. 
His  presence  at  the  finals  was  entirely  irregular;  the 
Dean  has  apologized  to  me  for  it.  I  had  omitted  his 
name  from  the  lists,  but  the  Dean  reentered  it  without 
my  knowledge.  So  he  took  his  examinations  with  his 
class,  and  did  much  better  than  I  expected;  passed  so 
well,  in  fact,  that  I  had  no  excuse  for  holding  the 
former  condition  against  him." 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  said  Brownell,  with 
feigned  innocence.  "  His  name  reentered  on  the  lists, 
you  say?  You  didn't  need  to  go  by  the  lists.  It 
was  your  own  recitation-room.  All  you  had  to  do 
when  you  saw  him  there  was  to  tell  him  to  clear 
out." 

"  Well,  ahem — "  said  Mr.  Brauer,  rubbing  his 
short,  square  beard  aside  so  as  to  let  the  air  blow  in 
upon  his  neck  above  his  low  collar,  "  in  fact  I  was  not 
able  to  hold  my  examinations  that  day.  Young  Perry 
gave  out  the  papers." 

Brownell  was  enchanted,  and  the  other  began  to 
move  his  head  rather  pompously  to  and  fro  under  the 
raillery  of  his  noisy  laughter. 

"  I  went  to  the  Dean  about  it  myself  as  soon  as  I 
perceived  it.  As  I  say,  I  made  him  apologize.  It 
seems  he  had  meant  to  see  me  about  it  earlier.  He  had 
entered  it,  in  fact,  in  his  memoranda — he  went  so  far 
as  to  show  me  the  entry,  but  in  some  way  the  thing 
had  slipped  his  memory."  Merritt  burst  into  one  of 
his  tirades  of  violent  abuse. 


206  IN    THE    HOUSE 

"  Oh,  he  got  round  you  as  usual,  I  suppose,  with 
his  rhetoric — the  old  wind-bag !  Mere  rhetoric,  empty- 
sounding  words,  with  nothing  behind  them.  That's 
the  whole  secret  of  the  Dean's  influence  on  the  trustees 
and  alumni.  No  doubt  he  would  succeed  better  if  he 
could  turn  the  financial  statement  into  rhetoric,  too; 
but,  unfortunately,  the  financial  statement,  being  only 
plain  figures,  can't  lie,  and  that's  the  reason  we  all 
know,  to  the  very  last  assistant,  that  the  college  hasn't 
met  its  expenses  for  the  last  five  years,  but  is  falling 
steadily  more  and  more  behind,  and  that  the  next  step 
will  be  a  cut  in  our  salaries." 

At  the  mention  of  salaries  and  financial  statements, 
a  gloom  seemed  to  descend  upon  the  whole  assembly, 
even  Brownell,  whose  highest  spirits  could  hardly  help 
evaporating  at  the  mere  thought  of  meeting  the  butch- 
er's bills  for  his  wife  and  babies  on  any  smaller  sum 
than  that  which  bound  him  already. 

"  There  is  the  Dean  now,"  he  said  suddenly,  from 
his  seat  facing  the  entrance.  "  I  was  wondering  why 
he  didn't  put  in  an  appearance.  It's  pretty  late.  Peo- 
ple are  beginning  to  go." 

Merritt  hitched  himself  round  on  his  chair  to  look 
behind  him.  Then  he  hitched  back  again. 

"  Faugh !  It  makes  me  sick  to  see  them  all  bowing 
and  scraping  around  him — men  who,  if  they  said  what 
they  thought,  what  they  have  said  themselves  in  con- 
fidence to  me — "  He  broke  off  in  a  disgust  which  was 
evidently  too  deep  for  words. 

"  All  the  same,  I  think  the  old  fellow  looking  very 
badly,"  said  Brownell,  beginning  to  swing  his  legs 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  207 

again.  "  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  didn't  last  out 
the  year." 

This  loosened  their  tongues  again,  for  they  all  had 
something  to  say  about  the  effect  the  Dean's  death 
would  have  on  the  college,  till  Merritt,  rearing  his  thin 
length  to  its  full  height,  rose  from  his  chair  and  strolled 
away  toward  the  part  of  the  grounds  where  his  wife 
was  presiding  over  the  refreshments. 

The  cohesion  of  his  presence  being  removed,  the 
others  drifted  away  one  by  one,  till,  when  Franklin 
Field  came  by  a  few  moments  afterward,  there  was  no 
one  left  but  Wynans,  standing  solitary,  leaning  upon 
the  balustrade,  gazing  out  through  his  spectacles  upon 
the  gay  scene  below,  his  usually  lethargic  countenance 
touched  by  an  expression  of  mild  sentimental  melan- 
choly. For  even  a  man  well  informed  in  all  the  intri- 
cacies of  mediaeval  history  must  feel  a  certain  sadness, 
on  a  beautiful  June  afternoon,  looking  out  over  many 
lovely  ladies  of  all  ages  and  characters,  and  conscious 
of  no  aptitude  in  his  own  learned  soul  by  which  he 
could  commend  himself  to  any  one  of  them.  He 
looked  wistfully  at  Franklin,  standing  on  the  edge  of 
the  steps,  his  limpid  blue  eyes  wandering  here  and 
there  over  the  bright  flower  beds  beneath  him,  evidently 
looking  for  some  one. 

In  another  moment  he  had  spied  her  out.  Wynans 
saw  him  descend  the  steps  and  take  the  shortest  way 
to  the  little  artificial  pond  in  the  middle  of  the  garden, 
to  join  a  lady  in  blue  muslin,  who  stood  beside  a  garden 
bench  talking  to  a  tall  gentleman.  Both  seemed  glad 
to  see  him.  Wynans  sighed  again,  for  the  lady  was 


2o8  IN   THE   HOUSE  OF   HER   FRIENDS 

Ethel  Porter,  and  he  admired  her  dimly  in  his  slow 
soul,  and  was  oppressed  by  the  cold  hostility  with  which 
she  regarded  him,  when  she  regarded  him  at  all,  mere- 
ly as  another  unit  in  the  sum  of  the  "  other  side,"  as 
she  called  that  part  of  the  faculty  who  were  wavering 
in  their  allegiance  to  the  Dean. 


XXII 

ETHEL  turned  from  her  cavalier  as  Franklin  ap- 
proached them. 

"Has  the  Dean  come?" 

"  Yes ;  I  left  him  with  Mrs.  Lawrence  just  now  on 
the  upper  terrace." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Ethel,  "  on  im- 
portant business." 

Franklin  stood  by,  smiling  his  little  secret  smile, 
which  made  him  seem  so  discreet  that  it  was  a  long 
time  before  any  one  realized  that  he  always  finally  told 
everything  he  knew.  He  felt  pleasantly  like  a  con- 
spirator as  he  said  to  Miss  Porter  in  an  undertone : 

"  I  have  got  last  night's  Statesburg  Messenger 
for  you — two  copies." 

"  There,  Chase,  I  said  I  would  get  one ! "  cried 
Ethel,  turning  triumphantly  to  her  companion,  who 
shrugged  his  high  shoulders  and  smiled,  not  disagree- 
ably, though  he  had  a  narrow  mouth,  without  quite 
room  in  it  for  all  his  long,  white  teeth.  He  was  a 
slender,  dark  man,  with  a  narrow  face,  a  prominent, 
crooked  nose,  large,  dark  eyes  somewhat  magnified  by 
his  glasses,  and  a  lisping,  affected  manner;  but  when 
he  talked  he  was  more  amusing  than  he  looked. 

Franklin  already  knew  him  as  Mr.  Chase  Hether- 
209 


210  IN   THE   HOUSE 

ington,  a  rising  lawyer  of  Statesburg,  and  Littelton 
knew  him  as  an  old  beau  of  Ethel's. 

"  I  wish  you  joy  of  that  scurrilous  sheet,"  he  said 
rather  contemptuously. 

"  But  I  want  to  see  that  letter  about  the  Dean." 

"  Not  even  signed.  Vulgar  abuse.  You  had  better 
not  look  at  it." 

"  Oh,  you  always  were  a  lukewarm,  cautious  creat- 
ure !  "  she  cried  audaciously.  "  A  man  who  really  loved 
the  college  would  resent  it." 

"  You  will  be  sorry  you  abused  me  this  way  when 
you  read  my  name  on  the  subscription  list  Dullas  has 
been  carrying  round  among  the  Statesburg  alumni  for 
the  last  three  weeks.  It  is  more  than  I  can  afford,  so 
I  think  it  must  be  generous." 

"  O  Chase,  you  are  an  angel !  I  take  back  all  I 
said  just  now.  Is  it  really  true  that  those  stingy 
creatures  in  Statesburg  are  going  to  do  something 
for  us?" 

"  Conditionally,  only  conditionally,  my  dear ;  and 
we,  who  have  pledged  ourselves,  still  cherish  fears 
that  we  won't  succeed  in  raising  the  whole  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  the  required  time.  All  or  nothing, 
you  know." 

"  Oh,  one  hundred  thousand  dollars !  "  cried  Ethel. 
"  They  never  can  raise  that.  Why  did  they  propose 
so  much  ?  " 

Hetherington  replied  demurely :  "  I  believe  I  had 
some  such  feeling  myself  when  I  subscribed  in  the  first 
place.  The  very  size  of  the  sum  had  a  kind  of  pro- 
tection in  it.  Lately  I  am  becoming  a  little  nervous. 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  211 

I  met  Dullas  in  the  street  the  other  day,  and  he  de- 
clares he  will  have  it  all  promised  before  next  week." 

"  I  believe  one  of  the  most  important  matters  which 
calls  the  Dean  to  Statesburg  this  evening  is  to  address 
your  committee,"  remarked  Franklin  neatly. 

The  other  man  made  a  gesture  of  burlesque  dismay. 

"  The  last  screw,"  he  murmured.  "  Guaranteed  to 
draw  water  from  a  stone." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  that  way,"  said  Ethel 
crossly,  "  as  if  you  didn't  care.  It  sounds  horrid. 
But  what  makes  the  honorable  Henry  S.  Dullas  so 
active  in  the  matter?  I  thought  he  was  a  man  who 
was  always  on  the  make." 

"  Well,  so  he  is.  You  know  he  hopes  to  go  to 
Washington  next  autumn.  The  college  is  going  to 
give  him  a  degree;  it  adds  to  a  man's  importance,  es- 
pecially if  he  doesn't  deserve  it." 

"  Whether  he  deserves  it  or  not,  he  has  shown  him- 
self a  more  loyal  son  of  Littel  College  than  you,  Chase," 
said  Ethel  hotly.  "  He  has  sent  his  son  here,  and  you 
let  your  little  brother  go  off  to  Yale." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  apologet- 
ically. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it.  The  boy  was  set  on  it  him- 
self. We  couldn't  stop  him.  He  wanted  to  play  foot- 
ball. And  let  me  tell  you,  Miss  Ethel,  it  is  very  well 
to  talk  loud  about  loyalty  to  one's  alma  mater,  and 
all  that,  but  a  small  college  is  not  always  the  best  place 
for  a  man,  even  if  his  father  did  go  there  before  him. 
Take  the  case  of  Dullas,  for  instance.  It  would  have 
been  a  great  deal  better  for  that  young  cub  if  his  father 


212  IN   THE   HOUSE 

had  let  him  go  to  one  of  the  big  universities,  as  he 
wanted.  It  might  have  knocked  some  of  the  conceit 
out  of  him." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  is  a  very  charming  boy  as  it  is !  " 
cried  Ethel. .  But  Chase  went  on  without  heeding  her : 

"  Compare  him  with  a  man  of  his  own  kind  at 
Harvard  and  you  will  see  what  I  mean.  You  agree 
with  me,  don't  you,  Field  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  only  too  ready  to  pronounce  in 
favor  of  my  own  university,"  said  Franklin  with  polite 
hesitation.  But  Ethel  brushed  away  their  arguments 
as  not  worth  consideration. 

"  I  confess  I  do  like  loyalty,"  she  reiterated,  "  even 
if  one  has  to  make  some  sacrifices  for  it." 

They  had  turned  from  the  stagnant  basin  in  the 
middle  of  the  lower  garden,  and  were  pacing  one  of  the 
narrower  paths  which  led  to  the  upper  terrace,  when, 
in  the  thickest  part  of  the  shrubbery,  emerging  some- 
what cautiously  from  a  shady  walk  beside  some  beech- 
trees,  they  came  upon  Sylvia. 

"  Well,  you  child,"  cried  Ethel  kindly,  "  what  are 
you  doing  here  alone?  Up  to  some  mischief,  I'm  quite 
sure.  Come  here.  This  is  Mr.  Hetherington,  an  old 
Littel  graduate,  and  a  great  friend  of  all  your  aunts." 

The  young  girl  came  forward  simply.  She  had 
never  seen  Mr.  Hetherington  before,  but  she  was  quite 
ready  to  adopt  him  among  her  acquaintances  at  Miss 
Porter's  bidding,  and  listened  with  shy  amusement  to 
the  talk  full  of  innuendo,  and  reference  to  what  she 
could  only  half-understand,  which  had  been  begun  by 
the  form  of  Ethel's  introduction. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  213 

"  I  knew  all  your  aunts,"  said  the  Littel  graduate, 
"  and  admired  them  equally — I  may  say,  adored  them 
all — and  so  did  every  man  in  my  class,  at  one  time 
or  another.  We  were  a  very  inflammable  class,  even 
from  freshmen.  At  the  end  we  grew  to  take  a  certain 
pride  in  it.  I  think  it  was  a  boast  of  our  senior  year 
that  there  was  not  one  man  among  us  who  had  not 
offered  up  his  heart  to  some  one  at  least  once  during 
his  college  course.  I  may  say,  however,  in  spite  of 
a  most  profound  admiration  for  your  Aunt  Sylvia,  that 
it  was  Miss  Porter  who  turned  me  down  the  oftenest 
in  the  four  years  I  stayed  here.  She  pretends  she  has 
forgotten  it  now." 

"  You  absurd  creature ! "  said  Ethel,  laughing. 
"  Don't  judge  him  too  severely,  Sylvia.  He  can  be 
quite  sensible  on  occasions." 

Sylvia  was  silent,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  atten- 
tion. Ethel  went  on,  turning  again  to  Chase: 

"Do  you  remember  that  ridiculous  Class  Day? 
We  used  to  have  it  in  the  chapel,  Sylvia,  when  I  was 
a  girl,  before  they  began  to  go  downtown,  as  they  do 
now,  to  the  city  churches.  It  was  much  more  fun. 
More  really  a  college  affair.  My  brother  Richard  had 
the  valedictory,  and  we  all  went  with  our  arms  full  of 
flowers  to  throw  to  him  afterward.  And  this  wretch 
here,  instead  of  tossing  them  decorously,  as  we  asked 
him,  stood  and  hurled  them  like  baseballs  from  the 
sixth  row.  Poor  Richard  was  nearly  annihilated.  If 
he  hadn't  dodged  most  of  them,  he  would  have  been 
knocked  down." 

"  I  nearly  floored  him,  though,  with  one  bunch  of 


214  IN    THE   HOUSE 

hard  moss  roses  from  the  Loomis's  garden.  I  could 
get  a  sort  of  grip  on  that.  It  went  through  the  air 
like  a  catapult.  Well,  he  got  it  harder  when  Mary 
refused  him  the  morning  after  the  ball.  He  wasn't  the 
only  one,  however.  The  college  woods  were  full  of  it 
all  that  day.  But  I  believe  you  were  the  only  girl  who 
turned  two  men  down  the  same  morning." 

Ethel  laughed.  "  I  hope  you  don't  believe  every- 
thing people  tell  you,  Sylvia,"  she  said,  putting  her 
hand  on  the  young  girl's  arm  and  drawing  her  closer 
when  the  narrowness  of  the  path  made  the  two  men 
fall  behind  or  in  front.  Sylvia's  eyes  were  full  of 
interest. 

"  I  didn't  know  any  man  ever  told  when  some  one 
refused  to  marry  him,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone  of  inno- 
cent surprise  to  Ethel,  when  for  a  moment  they  were 
almost  alone  together.  "  I  thought  even  the  girl  ought 
not  to  tell,  for  fear  of  hurting  his  feelings." 

"  No  greater  mistake  in  the  world,"  answered 
Ethel  briskly.  "  After  a  certain  age  a  man  gets  just 
as  much  pleasure  in  boasting  of  a  refusal  as  of  any 
other  experience,  and  on  just  as  little  ground.  In  this 
case,  for  instance,  I  never  refused  Mr.  Hetherington, 
for  the  excellent  reason  that  I  never  had  a  chance ;  but 
for  a  long,  time  it  has  amused  him  to  say  so,  and  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  spoil  his  pleasure  by  contradicting 
him." 

"  Was  that  after  mamma  had  come  to  live  here?  " 
asked  Sylvia  eagerly. 

"  No,  my  dear,  those  were  in  the  dark  ages,  before 
we  even  knew  there  was  such  a  person  as  your  mother. 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  215 

But  Sylvia,  child,  I  have  known  you  ever  since  you 
were  born,"  said  Ethel  more  seriously,  drawing  back 
so  as  to  let  the  two  men  in  front  get  a  little  farther 
out  of  earshot.  "  I  am  older  than  your  mother,  so 
you  must  not  be  vexed  with  me  if  I  scold  you  a 
little." 

Sylvia  looked  at  her  seriously,  with  transparent, 
elusive  eyes. 

"  O  Miss  Ethel,"  she  said,  "  you  are  very  nice  to 
care  enough  about  me  to  want  to  scold  me." 

"You  little  humbug!"  answered  Ethel.  "Don't 
you  feel  guilty,  doesn't  your  conscience  reproach  you 
for  treating  that  poor,  good-looking  swain  of  yours  as 
you  have  been  doing  for  the  last  few  days  ?  " 

"When?"  asked  Sylvia  innocently. 

"  At  the  Chandler's  dance  on  Tuesday  night.  In 
your  own  house,  at  your  grandfather's  reception.  I 
have  my  eyes  on  you." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Sylvia  still 
more  innocently.  "  Stephen  is  not  cross  with  me." 

"  Isn't  he  ?  Well  he  ought  to  be.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  play  with  a  man,  Sylvia  ? "  Sylvia 
smiled  shyly  and  shook  her  head.  "  Well  you  may  not 
know,  but  that's  what  you  are  doing.  And  now  let 
me  give  you  some  good  advice,  which  may  save  you 
trouble  some  day.  It  is  never  worth  while  to  treat  a 
man  very  badly  if  there  is  any  chance  of  your  marry- 
ing him  afterward." 

Sylvia  looked  interested.  "  You  may  say  you  are 
not  going  to  marry  Stephen,  but  if  you  will  listen  to 
me,  you  might  do  a  much  worse  thing.  They  say  a 


216  IN    THE   HOUSE 

girl  is  never  willing  to  accept  her  first  proposal,  but  it 
turns  out  more  often  than  not  that  her  first  proposal 
is  the  best  chance  she  ever  gets." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia  seriously.  "  That  is  what  is 
meant  by  the  fable  about  the  crooked  stick,  I  suppose." 

Ethel  paused  and  turned  upon  her  one  of  her  bright, 
intent  looks,  but  seeing  nothing  but  innocent  attention 
in  her  expression,  she  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  Now,  Stephen,  for  instance,  is  good  looking,  he 
has  a  good  position,  he  will  have  plenty  of  money,  and 
he  is  a  nice,  sweet  fellow." 

"  I  know.  Every  one  says  that  he  has  a  very  good 
heart,"  assented  Sylvia.  Ethel  looked  at  her  again  in 
sudden  suspicion,  but  nothing  could  have  been  more 
transparent  than  her  appearance.  She  was  evidently 
seriously  trying  to  meet  the  older  woman  on  her  own 
ground,  even  while  holding  her  own  reserves.  Ethel 
resumed  with  more  heat : 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  very  well  to  turn  up  one's  nose  at  a 
good  heart !  Some  day,  when  you  are  older,  and  have 
tried  other  things,  you  will  perhaps  find  just  how  rare 
and  precious  it  is  to  be  sure  of  the  good  heart  of  an 
honest  man  who  loves  you,  and  then " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia  solemnly,  "  that  is  what  people 
always  say;  then  it  is  too  late."  Ethel  couldn't  help 
laughing. 

"  You  absurd  child !  I  suppose  I  am  only  wasting 
my  words  over  you.  It  is  only  when  you  grow  to  be 
as  old  as  I  am  that  you  will  recognize  their  wisdom." 

"  It  seems  so  funny  to  hear  you  talk,  as  you  do  all 
the  time,  as  if  you  were  very  old,"  said  Sylvia,  so  in- 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  217 

genuously  that  Ethel  was  not  even  sure  that  she  was 
consciously  turning  the  subject.  "  You  know  you 
really  seem  as  young  as  Marjorie  and  me,  except  for 
knowing  more  things." 

"  Do  you  know  how  old  I  am  ?  " 

"  You  say  you  are  older  than  mamma,"  replied 
Sylvia  discreetly. 

"  And  do  you  know  how  old  she  is  ?  " 

"  She  always  said  she  would  tell  me  when  she  was 
twice  as  old  as  I." 

"  You  look  absurdly  young  for  your  age,  but  I 
fancy  you  are  quite  eighteen." 

"  Yes,  last  month,"  said  Sylvia  laughing. 

"  Do  you  think  your  mother  looks  much  younger 
than  I  do?  "  Ethel  continued  with  curiosity,  half-mis- 
chievous, half-genuine. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sylvia,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice.  "  It  is  very  hard  to  think  of  mamma  exactly 
like  other  people.  There  was  a  shadow  on  her  face  as 
she  finished,  which  didn't  lighten  as  Ethel  continued: 

"  I  suppose  you  are  very  fond  of  her  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Sylvia  gravely;  but  she  did  not 
speak  again  till  a  sharp  turn  in  the  path  they  had  been 
climbing  brought  them  unexpectedly  into  the  light  and 
movement  of  the  upper  terrace,  where  Franklin  and 
Hetherington  were  waiting  for  them. 

A  clamorous  group  of  youths  and  maidens  at  once 
made  a  descent  on  them,  calling  Sylvia  in  various  keys. 

"  We  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere !  " 

"  Where  have  you  been?  "  cried  Stephen,  planting 
himself  at  her  side  with  a  sort  of  bounce.  Ethel, 


218  IN    THE   HOUSE 

glancing  sideways,  saw  that  she  submitted  very  docilely 
to  be  carried  off,  though  answering  their  questions 
as  to  her  disappearance  with  somewhat  disingenuous 
vagueness. 

Hetherington  drew  out  his  watch.  "  If  you  want 
to  see  the  Dean  before  he  goes — "  he  began. 

"  I  do,"  said  Ethel,  "  and  so  do  you.  We  must  go 
at  once  or  he  will  have  escaped  me,  and  you  won't  get 
a  lift  down  to  the  station,  or  the  opportunity  of  ad- 
miring Mrs.  Lawrence's  eyes." 

The  Dean  was  delaying,  the  centre  of  a  little  crowd 
of  friends  and  admirers,  his  tall,  slender  figure  and 
gray  head  towering  over  most  of  them.  He  was  in 
very  good  spirits,  taking  gallant  part  in  the  talk  and 
banter  going  on  about  him,  though  his  fine  old  face 
seemed  every  now  and  then  to  fall  into  disarray,  over- 
powered by  the  enfeebling  laughter  of  old  age. 

Near  by,  though  remote  from  the  life  and  gayety 
of  the  other  group,  Katherine  stood,  talking  intermit- 
tently to  an  old  lady  or  two  from  the  boarding-house 
and  a  shy  student  who  seemed  to  find  comfort  for  his 
embarrassment  in  her  gentleness.  But  her  eye  was  on 
the  Dean,  watching  with  suppressed  impatience  for  his 
first  sign  of  departure,  the  increased  effort  in  her  po- 
lite attention  to  what  was  being  said  to  her  betraying 
her  weariness  and  longing  to  be  gone.  But  she  greeted 
Mrs.  Chandler,  who  appeared  at  last,  late,  hurrying, 
and  a  little  distracted,  with  instant  eagerness  and  cor- 
diality. 

"  How  late  you  are !  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about  this  evening." 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  219 

"  Yes,  I  am  late.  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  gone." 
They  drew  aside  from  the  others  to  discuss  their  chil- 
dren's requirements,  in  which  conversation  Ethel  in- 
terrupted them. 

"  Kitty,  I  want  to  ask  you.  Have  you  seen  that 
letter  in  the  Statesburg  paper  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Katherine  drawing  her  reserve  about 
her. 

"Has  the  Dean?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Katherine  briefly. 

"  What  does  he  think  of  it?  " 

Katherine  looked  down  a  moment,  choosing  her 
words — then  answered  with  her  usual  expressionless 
gentleness : 

"  I  think  he  was  hurt,  but  not  so  much  by  its  criti- 
cism as  its  evident  unfriendliness." 

"  Does  he  know  who  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Harriet  Mix  says  the  men  think  it  was  Merritt." 

"  He  is  not  an  alumnus." 

"  That  wouldn't  prevent  his  signing  himself  one." 

Katherine  raised  her  eyebrows.    "  Very  likely." 

"  I  want  to  tell  the  Dean." 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  said  Katherine,  almost  involuntarily. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  think  he  ought  to  be  shown  up  for 
what  he  is.  I  think  the  Dean  ought  to  be  put  on  his 
guard.  There  ought  to  be  some  way  of  getting  rid 
of  such  a  man  from  the  faculty." 

She  went  on,  more  and  more  impatient  of  Kath- 
erine's  silence: 

"  O  Kitty,  you  are  no  fun !    You  haven't  a  trace 


220  IN    THE   HOUSE 

of  the  fighter  in  you.  Why,  the  Dean  himself  is  not 
above  getting  a  certain  fun  out  of  the  give  and  take 
of  a  good  struggle.  You  know  he  thoroughly  enjoyed 
that  fizzle  of  a  protest  to  the  trustees.  But  you  are 
so  desperately  serious  about  it.  One  feels  all  the  time 
with  you  as  if  one  were  hitting  against  flesh  and 
blood." 

"  I  am  flesh  and  blood,"  said  Katherine  with  a  sort 
of  pathetic  simplicity  which  made  Ethel's  eyes  suddenly 
fill  with  tears.  She  made  an  involuntary  movement 
toward  her,  but  Katherine  had  already  retired  into  her 
shell  again,  and  Hough  appeared  at  the  moment  to 
say  that  the  carriage  was  waiting. 

As  the  Dean  with  his  little  train  began  to  move 
toward  the  gate,  Sylvia  came  up  to  her  mother  with 
a  rush,  followed  closely  by  Stephen. 

"  O  mamma,  are  you  going?  "  she  exclaimed,  and 
the  young  man,  too,  cried  out,  almost  blatant  in  his  ef- 
forts to  resume  his  former  easy  and  affectionate  rela- 
tions with  her,  but  he  soon  stopped,  silent  and  rebuffed 
by  the  cold  sweetness  of  his  reception  by  her.  Sylvia 
sent  him  a  swift,  almost  contemptuous  glance  from 
between  her  long  lashes.  None  knew  better  than  she 
the  baffling  quality  in  her  mother's  gentleness,  yet  none 
the  less  did  she  despise  him  for  being  helpless  before 
it.  She  turned  to  her  mother  again : 

"  But  won't  you  come  back?    What  about  me?  " 

"  You  are  going  to  the  class  exercises  with  Mrs. 
Chandler.  I  believe  a  lot  of  you  are  going  to 
walk  down  together.  You  have  had  enough  sup- 
per?" 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  221 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia,  downcast  in  her  turn.  "  And 
you,  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  drive  your  grandfather  to  his  train ; 
and,  oh,  by  the  way,  I  forgot — "  she  turned  back  sud- 
denly— "  Nannie,  of  course  you  are  going  to  the 
Loomis's  dance  to-morrow  night.  Would  you  mind 
taking  Sylvia?  I  don't  want  to  go." 

"  My  dear  child,  certainly,"  cried  Mrs.  Chandler 
with  exaggerated  readiness.  "  And  any  other  time, 
Kitty,  now  that  so  much  is  going  on  and  you  can't  feel 
up  to  it.  You  don't  even  need  to  let  me  know  before- 
hand. Just  send  her  over." 

Katherine  visibly  drew  herself  together,  almost  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  recover  some  balance  which  had 
been  suddenly  and  roughly  disarranged.  But  after  a 
moment  she  went  on  exactly  as  if  she  hadn't  heard : 

*'*  You  see,  Dr.  Lawrence  is  not  coming  back  from 
Statesburg  till  to-morrow  night,  and  I  am  afraid  he 
will  be  very  tired.  I  don't  want  him  to  arrive  and  find 
no  one  there  to  take  care  of  him." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mrs.  Chandler  a  little  flatly.  Then 
reviving  again  and  resuming  her  kindly  offices :  "  But 
any  other  time — "  only  to  be  put  aside  gently  rather 
than  gratefully. 

"  Thank  you.  You  are  very  good,  but  you  know 
I  like  to  take  Sylvia  when  I  am  able."  She  went  away 
with  the  Dean  and  Chase  Hetherington  to  where  the 
carriage  stood  waiting. 

Mrs.  Chandler  turned  to  Ethel,  shoulders  and  eye- 
brows raised  in  silent  comment : 

"Isn't  Kitty  amazing?    Sometimes  I  don't  know 


222  IN    THE    HOUSE 

whether  to  think  it's  pure  pluck  or  want  of  feeling. 
I  do  suppose  after  all  that  has  happened,  his  death  came 
as  a  sort  of  relief.  No  doubt  she  had  got  over  most 
of  it  before  we  knew  anything  about  it.  By  this  time 
she  may  really  have  ceased  to  care." 

"  Not  care !  "  echoed  Ethel.  "  In  my  opinion  she 
cares  more  than  for  anything  that  has  ever  happened 
to  her.  Just  watch  her  a  moment  and  you  will  see. 
She  is  only  just  able  to  keep  a  firm  enough  front  to 
hold  us  out  of  speaking  distance.  How  she  must  be 
hating  us !  She  would  be  perfectly  happy  never  to  see 
any  of  us  again." 

"  O  Ethel ! "  said  Mrs.  Chandler,  relinquishing 
the  conversation  unwillingly,  to  answer  the  soft,  in- 
sistent pulling  at  her  arm  by  which  her  daughter  was 
trying  to  attract  her  attention. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  we  are  all  going  to  walk  down  to- 
gether." 

"  Is  Miss  Porter  going  too?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    Are  you,  Ethel  ?  " 

"  To  the  class  exercises  ?    No,  why  should  I  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  come,  Miss  Ethel !  "  cried  Sylvia.  "  It  is 
so  much  nicer  when  you  are  there.  Yes,  indeed.  You 
needn't  laugh;  I  really  mean  it.  You  have  a  way, 
wherever  you  are,  anywhere,  of  turning  all  the  little 
chattering  things  that  have  been  going  on  before  into 
a — well,  a  kind  of  social  event." 

"  You  absurd  child !  "  cried  Ethel,  laughing  but 
highly  gratified.  Franklin  smiled  his  little  fine  appre- 
ciative smile,  but  Stephen  exclaimed  with  a  clamor  of 
reproach  and  objection: 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  223 

"  Well,  I  like  that !  I  am  glad  I  haven't  any  speecfi 
to  make  at  the  exercises,  or  else  it  would  be  one  on  me. 
Little  chattering  things!"  and  he  broke  into  loud 
laughter. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Sylvia,  with  displeased, 
downcast  eyes.  His  laughter  lapsed  suddenly  into  a 
rather  perfunctory  "  Ha !  ha !  "  and  he  stood  silent, 
staring  vacantly  into  space  and  pulling  fiercely  at  his 
little  brown  mustache,  till  she  spoke  to  him  again  in 
a  lower  tone: 

"  You  never  understand !  " 

"  Don't  I  understand  ?  I  didn't  mean  it,  I  didn't 
mean  it,  dear,"  he  replied,  also  in  an  undertone,  turn- 
ing so  as  to  conceal  her  a  little  from  the  rest  of  the 
group.  "  I  wouldn't  vex  you  for  anything.  Can't  you 
believe  that?" 

"  You  may  not  mean  to  vex  me,  but  you  do,"  said 
Sylvia  with  pitiless  clearness. 

"  How  do  I  vex  you,  dear?  "  said  Stephen  meekly. 
"  Only  tell  me,  and  I'll  never  do  it  again."  He  bent 
over  her,  evidently  with  difficulty  restraining  himself 
from  some,  even  the  smallest  personal  contact,  from 
catching  her  fingers,  or  touching  even  an  end  of  her 
ribbon. 

She  drew  back  as  he  became  more  imminent. 

"  Well,  don't — well,  try  not  to  look  so  big.  "  It 
scares  me." 

He  fell  back,  relieved  by  the  first  signs  of  softening, 
and  then  furious  to  see  Bradley  beckoning  from  a  dis- 
tance. 

"  I  hate  to  go !    If  I  wasn't  grand  marshal  I  would 


224    IN   THE   HOUSE  OF   HER   FRIENDS 

cut  the  whole  thing  and  stay  and  go  with  you.  Would 
you  let  me?  Would  you  let  me  come  and  sit  with  you 
if  I  could?" 

"  Why  can't  you,  if  you  really  wish  ?  You  know 
you  wouldn't  give  up  the  chance  of  carrying  that  stick 
with  the  white  ribbons  for  anything." 

As  soon  as  he  saw  that  his  anguish  amused  her,  he 
increased  its  expression  a  thousand-fold  for  her  delecta- 
tion. They  parted  at  last  on  very  good  terms. 


XXIII 

MARJORIE  having  at  last  obtained  her  mother's 
attention  was  able  to  explain  that  her  dress 
needed  some  serious  alteration,  which  would  require 
a  return  to  the  house  before  they  could  start  for  the 
class  speaking. 

"  You  tiresome  child !  "  said  Mrs.  Chandler  some- 
what unreasonably.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  be- 
fore?" 

They  were  all  turning  back,  even  Ethel,  but  Sylvia 
hesitated. 

"  Mr.  Field  wants  me  to  stay  with  him,  Mrs. 
Chandler.  We'll  wait  for  you  on  the  steps  of  the 
laboratory." 

Marjorie  fixed  her  solemn,  ruminating  gaze  on  the 
blue  eyed  tutor.  She  had  been  surprised  more  than 
once  lately  by  evidence  of  growing  interest  in  the  young 
man's  attitude  to  Sylvia,  and  felt  that  she  must  some- 
time warn  him  about  it.  Sylvia  was  not  at  all  the  girl 
he  would  really  like  as  he  grew  to  know  her  better. 
Marjorie,  who  understood  them  both,  was  quite  sure 
that  he  was  only  wasting  his  time  by  having  anything 
to  do  with  her.  It  was  too  late  now  to  interfere,  but 
she  went  away  regretfully  with  her  mother  and  Miss 
Ethel,  through  the  damp,  concealed  paths  in  the  shrub- 
bery, which  conducted  at  last  to  a  back  entrance  of 
the  old  Constable  house,  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the 

225 


226  IN   THE   HOUSE 

college  grounds  beyond  the  laboratory  and  the  school 
of  engineering.  The  others  went  together  out  of  the 
ornamental  front  gate,  into  the  green  glory  of  the 
campus  drenched  in  the  level  light  of  the  western  sun. 

The  distance  of  the  Alban  Hills  looked  wonderfully 
blue  and  transparent  as  it  shone  through  the  leafy 
arches  of  the  line  of  elms  stretching  across  the  sunset, 
sending  the  long,  slender  shadows  of  their  trunks  far- 
ther and  farther  along  the  grass.  The  shade  had  al- 
ready climbed  the  gray  front  of  the  laboratory,  though 
its  stone  steps  still  retained  a  grateful  warmth  from 
the  hot  June  sun,  when  Sylvia  and  Franklin  took  their 
places  there  to  wait  till  the  little  group  of  their  friends 
appeared  round  the  corner. 

For  a  while  they  both  sat  silent,  Sylvia  with  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  her  level  eyes  gazing  out,  rather  past 
the  sunlit  hills  than  at  them,  he  stretched  on  the  stone 
at  her  feet,  thinking  that  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
lovely,  so  full  of  suggestion  and  delicate,  tender  charm. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  "  he  said  very  softly, 
in  his  gentle,  somewhat  plaintive  voice.  Sylvia  an- 
swered without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  sunset. 

"  Those  mountains,"  she  said  gravely.  "  See,  they 
go  all  around  and  shut  in  the  whole  horizon.  They  are 
so  very  low,  and  yet  there  is  no  outlet  anywhere.^  I 
was  thinking  that  it  was  like  a  prison." 

"  What  a  way  you  have  of  putting  things  into 
words ! "  cried  Franklin  sharply.  "  It  is  quite  true. 
They  are  the  walls  of  a  prison." 

Sylvia  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  pathetic 
recognition  which  was  self  betrayal. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  227 

"  Do  you  feel  that  too  ?  Is  it  because  you  are  un- 
happy ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  raised  his  eyebrows 
without  speaking. 

"  Why  are  you  unhappy  ?  "  continued  Sylvia,  with 
a  kind  of  wistful  interest  in  another  person's  experience 
of  this  new  thing  which  had  come  into  her  world,  for 
which  she  was  so  unprepared,  of  which  she  knew  so 
little. 

He  was  touched,  and  answered  almost  as  simply 
as  he  had  been  addressed. 

"  I  can't  call  it  by  so  dignified  a  name  as  unhappi- 
ness.  Discontented  rather,  disappointed  at  finding  my- 
self in  a  place  for  which  I  am  not  fit,  among  people  who 
are  uncongenial." 

"  You  want  to  get  out  again  into  the  world  ?  "  said 
Sylvia — "  your  world  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Franklin  half  involuntarily. 
"  But  I  can't.  As  you  say,  the  hills  are  very  low,  but 
they  have  no  outlet."  No  sooner  had  he  spoken  than 
he  was  startled  at  his  own  frankness,  and  tried  to  dis- 
guise it,  raising  himself  a  little  from  his  recumbent 
position  on  the  lower  step,  in  his  anxiety  to  be,  or 
rather  not  to  be,  apprehended. 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  don't  want  to  seem 
to  be  saying  a  word  against  the  people  here.  It  would 
be  too  ungrateful  after  their  endless  kindness  and  in- 
terest in  my  affairs." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sylvia  indifferently,  "  they  are 
very  kind." 

"  It  is  rather  the  smallness  of  the  place  than  the 


228  IN   THE   HOUSE 

people  who  make  it  up,  that  is  to  blame,"  continued 
Franklin  earnestly.  "  It  takes,  I  suppose,  practice  to 
live  comfortably  in  a  small  town  where  the  people  have 
really  very  little  except  one  another  to  interest  them." 

"  You  will  soon  be  going  away  again,"  said  Sylvia. 
"  You  don't  belong  here." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Franklin  a  little 
bitterly.  "  Positions  with  salaries  as  small  even  as 
mine,  are  not  going  begging  in  the  world  just  now. 
But  why  do  you  want  to  go  away  ?  "  he  went  on,  with 
his  usual  trained  and  timid  instinct  of  turning  the  con- 
versation back  to  the  speaker  whenever  he  found  it  too 
interestingly  involved  in  himself.  "  This  is  your  home. 
You  have  your  friends ;  all  your  old  associations." 

"Yes,"  said  Sylvia.  She  hesitated  a  moment  in 
her  effort  to  express  herself.  "  Perhaps  it  is  for  that 
very  reason.  The  people  all  stand  round  me  like  the 
hills,  and  tease  me  if  I  want  to  be  anything  I  haven't 
been  before." 

"And  do  you  want  to  be  something  you  haven't 
been  before  ?  "  asked  Franklin  softly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Sylvia  a  little  drearily, 
"  but  it  is  tiresome,  because  I  laughed  yesterday  to  have 
to  go  on  laughing  to-day.  I  should  like  to  go  away 
and  never  come  back,  except,  perhaps,  after  years,  as 
Miss  Porter  is  doing,  to  smile  and  wonder  and  pretend 
I  am  sorry,  but  in  my  heart  always  to  be  rejoicing  that 
I  had  been  able  to  make  my  escape." 

"  The  time  may  be  coming  sooner  than  you  think," 
said  Franklin  seriously.  "  Don't  make  vows  for  it 
that  some  day  you  may  remember  and  regret." 


OF!   HER   FRIENDS  229 

"  No,"  said  Sylvia.  "  There  is  no  chance.  I 
shouldn't  want  to  go  without  mamma,  and  she  would 
not  go  away  from  my  grandfather  and  Tom." 

He  was  hesitating  how  to  reply  when  the  others 
appeared  as  suddenly  as  if  they  had  not  been  expected, 
calling  to  Sylvia  and  Franklin  with  the  impatience  of 
those  who  have  been  keeping  others  waiting  and  don't 
want  to  be  late  themselves.  They  went,  all  together 
across  the  college  campus. 

"  There  is  Kitty  only  just  come  back.  The  train 
must  have  been  late,"  exclaimed  Ethel,  as  Mrs.  Law- 
rence's carriage  stopped  at  the  Dean's  step  to  let  out 
its  single  occupant,  and  then  was  driven  away  again. 

Franklin  saw  Sylvia  look  and  look  again,  more 
and  more  wistfully,  as  they  approached  the  corner. 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  go  home,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Why,  Sylvia!"  said  Marjorie,  and  "Why, 
dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Chandler.  "Do  you  think  your 
mother  wants  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Sylvia  quickly,  almost  shrinkingly. 
"  It  is  not  that.  It's  no  reason.  I  just  don't  want  to 
go.  I'm  tired." 

"  But  poor  Mr.  Dullas,"  murmured  Marjorie  with 
intense  reproach. 

"  Don't  be  a  little  goose !  "  cried  Ethel  bluffly.  "  I 
believe  you  are  like  those  naughty  babies  at  children's 
parties,  who  only  need  a  sight  of  their  mother  to  make 
them  begin  to  cry  to  go  to  her." 

But  Sylvia  would  not  be  laughed  out  of  her  in- 
tention. 

She  found  Katherine  in  the  parlor,  evidently  just 


230  IN   THE   HOUSE 

as  she  had  sunk  down  on  first  coming  in,  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  every  line  of  her  attitude  showing  an  extreme, 
almost  hopeless  weariness. 

But  she  drew  herself  together  quickly  the  instant 
she  heard  her  daughter's  step. 

"  Why  should  she  do  that  ?  Why  should  she  have 
to  do  that  for  me  ?  "  thought  Sylvia  with  inexpressible 
bitterness,  and  she  stopped  abruptly  in  the  doorway, 
almost  ready  to  go  away  again.  But  Katherine  had 
already  regained  her  usual  manner. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  I  thought  you  had 
gone  down  to  the  class  exercises  with  the  Chandlers." 

"  The  rest  have  gone,  I  came  across  the  campus 
with  them;  but  just  at  the  last  I  thought  I'd  rather 
not.  I  wanted  to  come  back  and  be  with  you,"  she 
concluded  somewhat  timidly.  Katherine  had  risen  to 
her  feet  and  gone  to  the  long  glass,  where  she  began  to 
take  off  her  hat,  looking  seriously  at  her  image  in  the 
glass  a  moment  afterward,  with  the  unconscious  inter- 
est a  beautiful  woman  often  takes  in  her  own  appear- 
ance. 

She  turned  at  last  to  Sylvia,  who  had  dropped  upon 
the  window-seat,  and  answered  her  a  little  coldly : 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear,  for  I  have  a  great  deal  of  copy- 
ing to  do  for  your  grandfather,  which  will  keep  me 
busy  in  my  room  all  the  evening.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
be  dull." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Sylvia.  "  I'd  rather  be  here. 
I  didn't  want  to  go."  Then  after  a  moment  she  broke 
out: 

"  Mamma,   why  did   you  give  yourself   all   that 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  231 

trouble  about  finding  some  one  to  take  me  to  the 
Loomis's  ?  Indeed,  I  don't  care  about  it.  I  don't  want 
to  go  at  all  if  you  don't." 

Katherine  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  "  My 
dear,  why  not  ?  Are  you  afraid  of  not  having  a  good 
time?  You  have  always  had  a  good  time  so  far,  and 
this  is  in  a  private  house,  so  you  are  quite  sure  to  be 
looked  after." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  said  Sylvia  faintly. 

"Is  it  that  you  don't  want  to  go  without  me?" 
said  her  mother  with  cold  gentleness.  "  It  shan't  hap- 
pen again  if  I  can  help  it,  but  you  understand  that  I 
can't  leave  your  grandfather." 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  Sylvia  earnestly.  "  It  isn't  that. 
I'd  much  rather  you  didn't  go.  I'd  rather  stay  at  home 
from  everything  than  have  you  go  just  to  take  me." 

"  But  why  else  should  I  go,  Sylvia,  except  to  take 
you  ?  "  said  her  mother,  more  and  more  coldly.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  I  don't  mean  any- 
thing," said  Sylvia  indistinctly,  with  difficulty  swal- 
lowing her  tears. 

Katherine  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  began  to  move  about  the  room,  at  first  only  to 
collect  her  belongings  preparatory  to  going  upstairs, 
then  lingering  to  alter  the  position  of  a  chair,  changing 
the  order  of  the  books,  removing  some  bits  of  rubbish 
that  Molly  had  carefully  inserted  among  the  ornaments 
during  her  morning  dusting,  paying  no  further  atten- 
tion to  Sylvia,  until  the  silent,  forlorn  young  figure  in 
the  window  seemed  at  last  to  arouse  some  compassion. 


232  IN    THE   HOUSE 

"  Come  upstairs,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand 
as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  speaking  very  kindly. 
"  Let  us  look  at  your  dress  for  the  Commencement 
ball.  Poor  old  Mrs.  Wood  has  been  working  so  hard 
all  day.  It  is  quite  finished  and  lying  on  the  table  in 
the  sewing-room." 

Sylvia  came  without  a  word. 

The  sewing-room  was  the  old  nursery,  a  wide,  low, 
pleasant  room,  looking  on  the  back.  The  daylight  was 
fading  fast,  leaving  only  a  pale  gray  vision  of  empty 
spaces,  indistinct  pieces  of  furniture,  the  wire  figure  for 
holding  dresses,  the  sewing  machine,  hidden  by  its 
square  cover,  and  Sylvia's  first  little  empty  bed,  far 
away  in  a  distant  corner.  Outside,  the  crickets  were 
chirping  so  loud  that  the  whole  room  was  full  of  their 
thin,  endless  rhythmic  cadence.  It  was  the  same  sound 
which  always  had  the  power  to  throw  the  child  into 
agonies  of  melancholy  long  ago,  as  she  lay  in  that  very 
little  bed  in  the  corner,  whither  she  had  been  sent  before 
it  was  really  dark,  and  where  she  had  to  stay  wide 
awake  for  what  seemed  to  her  hours  and  hours,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  listen  to  the  crickets  singing. 

If  ever  in  the  past  anything  had  made  her  unhappy, 
if  she  had  been  naughty  and  her  mother  was  angry  with 
her,  then  the  crickets  were  sure  to  sing  the  loudest. 
The  same  damp,  dank  smell  of  the  wet  grass  in  the 
drying  yard  came  through  the  windows  then  as  now. 
And  now  as  she  stood  there,  silent  and  passive  in  the 
doorway,  watching  her  mother  pull  up  the  shade  to 
let  in  all  the  light  that  was  left,  upon  the  big  cutting 
out  table,  she  felt  herself  again  overcome  by  the  same 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  233 

passionate  melancholy  of  long  ago,  the  weakness,  the 
helplessness,  the  folly  of  a  little  child  that  feels  no 
safety  except  in  the  arms  of  some  one  who  loves  it. 

"  How  dark  it  is !  "  cried  Mrs.  Lawrence.  "  I  am 
afraid  we  shall  have  to  light  the  lamp.  But  it  is  lighter 
here  near  the  window.  Look  Sylvia !  Don't  you  think 
that  is  pretty  ?  "  with  genuine  interest,  as  she  raised 
the  sheet  from  the  softly  tinted,  fragile  organdy,  spread 
out  in  all  its  bravery  on  the  table.  Sylvia  looked  and 
tried  to  seem  appreciative,  but  the  crickets  sounded 
louder  than  her  mother's  voice. 

"  She  is  only  doing  it  to  please  me.  She  doesn't 
care  herself.  She  can't  really  care.  I  wish  she  wouldn't 
try  to  do  things  to  please  me.  It  would  be  much 
easier." 

But  Katherine  went  on  almost  eagerly : 

"  See,  the  ribbons  go  this  way,  and  this  ruffle  is 
fastened  here  with  the  little  pin  your  Aunt  Ruth  sent 
you  on  your  last  birthday.  I  think  it  is  going  to  be 
very  nice.  Don't  you  want  to  try  it  on?  We  can  go 
afterward  into  my  room,  where  there  is  a  light  and  a 
long  glass,  and  see  the  effect." 

"  Oh,  no,  please !  "  exclaimed  Sylvia  with  a  cry  of 
such  childish,  characteristic  alarm  at  what  was  to  her 
always  a  most  painful  proceeding  that  Katherine  was 
surprised  into  natural  laughter.  But  Sylvia  had  quick- 
ly relapsed  into  her  new  learned  meekness. 

"  I  will  if  you  like — if  you'd  rather,  mamma — if 
you  don't  think  it  would  be  time  enough  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Katherine  stopped  laughing  and  began  to  cover  up 


234  IN    THE   HOUSE 

the  dress  again.  "  Of  course  it  will  do  in  the  morning," 
she  said  a  little  coldly. 

But  Sylvia  was  in  an  agony  again.  "  Why  couldn't 
I  have  done  that  to  please  her,"  she  asked  herself.  "  I 
would  have,  if  I  had  thought  she  cared;  but  how  can 
she  care  for  those  little  things !  " 

She  followed  Katherine  hesitatingly  out  of  the 
nursery  into  the  sitting-room  which  opened  out  of  her 
mother's  bedroom  and  looked  through  a  square,  vine 
framed  window  over  the  college  yards,  lingering  in 
the  doorway,  while  Katherine  rang  for  a  lamp  and 
began  to  arrange  the  papers  on  her  desk.  Sylvia  was 
very  familiar  with  the  sitting-room.  Here  she  had  sat 
in  her  special  chair  and  learned  her  lessons  while  her 
mother  wrote,  or  had  lain  at  full  length  on  the  hard 
wood  floor  in  the  draught  between  the  door  and  win- 
dow on  hot  August  afternoons  while  Katherine  read 
aloud  to  both  children. 

Her  own  picture  and  Tom's  at  all  ages  had  their 
various  places  in  the  room  and  on  the  walls.  On  the 
desk,  in  an  ivory  frame,  there  was  a  softly  tinted  photo- 
graph of  a  charming  boy,  almost  a  child,  in  a  short 
jacket  and  a  turned-down  collar,  who  looked  out, 
frankly  smiling  at  every  one,  with  eyes  like  Sylvia's. 
She  had  always  known  it  was  her  father,  but  to-day 
she  saw  another  photograph  of  him,  with  which  she 
was  not  familiar,  standing  propped  up  without  a 
frame. 

"  Is  that  papa  ?  I  have  never  seen  it  before,"  she 
said  with  sudden  interest.  Katherine  took  it  up  and 
regarded  it  a  moment. 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  235 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was  looking  at  it  this  morn- 
ing, and  must  have  left  it  out  by  accident.  I  never 
cared  for  it  very  much.  That  is  probably  the  reason 
you  have  never  seen  it  before." 

"  How  young  it  is !  "  said  Sylvia,  wondering.  The 
very  unaccustomedness  of  the  photograph  made  the 
face  that  looked  out  of  it  seem  hardly  older  than  Frank- 
lin Field. 

"  Was  that  taken  when  he  was  a  very  young 
man?"  asked  Sylvia  wistfully. 

"  He  was  always  a  young  man,  my  dear,"  said 
Katherine  a  little  sadly.  "  This  was  the  last  picture 
he  ever  had  taken." 

His  daughter  was  glad  to  see  the  photograph  put 
away  in  a  drawer,  out  of  sight,  for  the  young,  untried 
face  in  it  seemed  to  strike  cruelly  at  the  ideal  of  her 
father  which  had  kept  pace  in  her  mind  unconsciously 
with  her  growth.  Then  she  turned  to  go  away  down- 
stairs by  herself,  leaving  her  mother  to  her  writing. 

"Why  don't  you  sit  here?"  said  Katherine  very 
kindly.  "  I  can  turn  the  lamp  so  that  it  shines  on  your 
book,  and  it  is  nice  and  cool  with  the  air  from  the 
window." 

"  No,"  said  Sylvia,  "  I'm  afraid  I'd  only  be  in  your 
way.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  don't  mind  being  alone." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a  kind 
of  impatient  tenderness.  "  Poor  little  child.  What  is 
there  to  make  you  so  very  much  cast  down  ?  You  make 
me  feel  as  if  I  were  cruel  to  you.  Am  I  hounding  you 
to  festivities  to-morrow  against  your  will?  I  shan't 
mind  if  you  don't  go  to  the  Loomis's." 


236    IN    THE   HOUSE   OF   HER    FRIENDS 

But  Sylvia  shook  her  head.  "  No ;  I  want  to  go 
now.  You  don't  understand  what  I  meant;  but  it 
doesn't  matter." 

She  went  away  to  her  grandfather's  empty  study, 
not  even  seeing  her  mother's  tentative  movement  to  call 
her  back.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone,  Katherine  let  her 
head  drop  a  moment,  hiding  her  face  in  her  two  hands 
and  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table.  Almost  instantly, 
however,  she  uncovered  her  eyes,  and  with  a  deep, 
short  sigh  took  up  her  pen  and  began  to  write.  She 
was  still  writing  when  Sylvia  passed  her  open  door  on 
her  way  to  bed. 


XXIV 

SYLVIA  had  never  admired  her  grandfather,  the 
less,  perhaps,  because  she  had  always  heard  him 
spoken  of  as  a  distinguished  man.  All  through  her 
little  girlhood  he  had  stood  as  the  reason  for  curtail- 
ment of  her  pleasures,  interference  with  her  mother's 
society.  When  he  talked,  and  he  talked  a  good  deal, 
she  had  been  taught  to  be  silent.  And  his  attitude  to 
her,  though  more  than  kindly,  had  never  been  one  to 
excite  peculiar  affection.  It  had  been  too  impersonal, 
too  didactic,  and,  as  she  grew  older,  she  became  more 
and  more  alert  to  a  certain  quality  in  it  which  merged 
her  into  his  general  philanthropic  interest  and  affection 
for  the  whole  human  race,  or,  at  most,  with  his  senti- 
mental idea  of  his  family  as  a  unit.  This  her  assertive 
individualism  resented  and  rejected.  She  did  not  love 
him,  turning  on  him  her  cool,  childish,  reasonable  eyes 
with  an  inexorable  scrutiny,  which  found  in  him  only 
too  many  faults  and  weaknesses.  Just  now  he  seemed 
to  her  especially  tiresome,  almost  childish  in  refusing 
to  take  care  of  himself  as  the  doctor  told  him,  though 
it  was  the  obvious  and  simple  way  of  getting  better. 
She  was  almost  vexed  with  her  mother  for  her  infinite 
tenderness  and  patience  with  him  in  his  greatest  un- 
reasonableness, watching  over  him,  and,  when  she 

237 


238  IN   THE   HOUSE 

couldn't  persuade  him  to  his  good,  actually  helping  him 
and  making  it  easy  for  him  to  be  imprudent. 

"  But,  after  all,"  Sylvia  asked  herself  with  pitiless 
judgment,  "  what  is  the  use  of  growing  old  if  it 
doesn't  teach  you  to  give  up  things  you  want  when  you 
know  they  are  going  to  do  you  harm.  And  can  one  be 
really  a  great  man  if  one  hasn't  learned  to  be  philosoph- 
ical about  little  things  ?  " 

In  her  own  heart  she  felt  that  even  the  loss  of  the 
alumni  banquet  was  not  a  matter  to  make  much  fuss 
about.  No  doubt  it  would  be  a  disappointment.  But 
didn't  people  ever  get  used  to  disappointments?  she 
asked  herself;  and  wasn't  it  very  selfish  to  go  on  in- 
sisting he  would  be  well  enough,  as  her  grandfather 
did,  evidently  determined  to  go  at  all  risks,  quite  re- 
gardless of  the  fact  that  he  was  making  every  one 
around  him  anxious  and  unhappy  ? 

She  came  with  Tom  into  the  study  on  the  morning 
of  alumni  day,  flushed  with  exercise  after  two  sets 
of  singles  on  the  college  tennis-courts,  deserted,  as 
nearly  all  the  undergraduates  had  left  after  the  last 
examinations.  The  study  seemed  cool  and  dark,  and  a 
little  sad  in  contrast  to  their  youthful  exuberance. 

The  Dean  sat  deep  in  his  old  arm-chair,  drinking 
a  cup  of  coffee  from  a  little  tray  on  a  table  by  his  side. 
He  looked  pallid  and  frail  and  shrunken,  though  he 
greeted  his  two  grandchildren  with  his  usual  gallant 
spirits.  Katherine  stood  beside  him,  grave  and  watch- 
ful, smiling  slightly,  speaking  very  little  whenever  a 
word  from  her  could  keep  him  from  exciting  himself. 

"  O  Tom !  "  she  exclaimed,  when  she  saw  her  son, 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  239 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  come  back  in  time.  Run 
upstairs  and  dress.  I  shall  want  you  to  go  over  with 
your  grandfather  to  the  dinner.  He  will  drive,  and 
Professor  Chandler  is  coming  to  take  him;  but  I  like 
to  think  of  your  strong  arm  to  help  him  out  of  the 
carriage." 

Tom  vanished  at  once,  but  Sylvia  lingered.  He 
was  going  then,  in  spite  of  everything,  though  he 
must  know  it  would  do  him  harm.  She  watched  him 
a  moment  with  her  brilliant,  critical  eyes,  noticing  every 
sign  of  the  fumbling  uncertainty  which  made  the  cup 
shake  in  his  weak  old  hands. 

Then  she  walked  away  toward  the  window,  too 
annoyed  with  him  to  trust  herself  to  look  at  him  any 
longer.  She  did  not  even  turn  round  when  she  heard 
Professor  Chandler's  hurried,  soothing  voice  from  the 
doorway:  "  How  are  you,  my  dear  old  friend?  I  have 
brought  Dick  Porter  with  me."  But  she  heard  her 
mother  exclaim,  with  a  little  cry  of  glad,  frank  relief : 
"  Richard !  How  lucky !  You  will  take  care  of  him 
and  see  he  doesn't  get  too  tired." 

Then  in  the  midst  of  a  kind  of  rumble  of  welcome 
from  the  Dean,  her  indignation  took  wings  in  her  curi- 
osity to  find  out  what  Miss  Porter's  brother  looked  like. 
She  saw  a  rather  undersized  man  of  no  particular  age, 
dressed  in  indistinct,  light-gray  clothes,  which  did  not 
give  enough  contrast  to  indistinct  coloring,  light  gray 
eyes  and  light  lashes  and  eyebrows.  But  he  had  an 
agreeable  smile,  and  a  very  pleasant,  well  modulated 
voice,  and  there  was  something  about  his  manner  which 
made  Sylvia  decide  at  once  that  he  was  nice,  in  which 


240  IN   THE   HOUSE 

opinion  others  of  her  sex  had  already  agreed  with  her. 
Her  mother  was  speaking  to  him  with  confident,  almost 
affectionate  familiarity. 

"  I  thought  I  should  see  you  after  the  trustee  meet- 
ing last  night,  but  when  I  came  into  the  study  you  were 
gone.  I  expected  you  to  wait  and  speak  to  me." 

"  So  I  should  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  but 
Dullas  carried  me  off  and  I  was  afraid  he  was  tired," 
with  a  little  gesture  of  his  head  toward  the  Dean,  while 
he  still  held  the  hand  Katherine  had  extended  to  him. 

"  He  was  tired.  He  is  not  fit  to  go  now,"  she 
answered  in  a  lower  tone." 

"  You  can  trust  him  with  me,"  replied  Richard  com- 
fortably. "  I'll  take  as  good  care  of  him  as  Tom 
would." 

Sylvia  thought  he  meant  her  brother,  and  was  quite 
ready  to  agree  with  him. 

"  And  is  this  Sylvia  ?  "  continued  Richard  Porter, 
looking  with  his  pleasant  smile  at  the  young  girl  who 
stood,  glimmering,  erect  and  slender  in  her  white  tennis 
clothes  among  the  shadows  of  the  dark  old  room. 

"  Yes,  this  is  Sylvia,"  said  Katherine,  and  watched 
her  daughter  come  forward  and  smile  and  raise  her 
starry  eyes  to  her  mother's  old  friend,  and  then  inter- 
rupted what  the  young  girl  was  beginning  to  say,  with 
a  sort  of  eagerness  unusual  to  her. 

"  She  doesn't  look  like  me!  "  she  said.  The  ques- 
tion in  her  eyes  gave  them  a  kind  of  strained  sweet- 
ness, as  she  awaited  his  reply. 

Richard  looked  seriously  a  moment ;  then  he  turned 
to  her  and  shook  his  head  with  a  little  half  smile. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  241 

"  Not  one  bit,"  he  answered. 

"  It  is  Tom  who  looks  like  mamma,"  cried  Sylvia, 
with  her  usual  rush  of  feeling.  "  It  is  too  bad,  for  he 
doesn't  need  it  nearly  as  much  as  I  do." 

She  surprised  a  kind  of  intimate  amusement  on  the 
faces  of  the  other  two,  which  puzzled  her  for  a  moment. 
But  then  the  Dean  interrupted : 

"  Well,  young  people,  I  don't  know  about  you,  but 
I  am  quite  ready  to  be  off." 

His  indomitable  spirit  was  already  beginning  to 
tear  and  drag  at  his  heavy  old  body,  raising  it  slowly, 
painfully  from  the  deep  chair,  with  desperate  clutching 
at  the  arms,  and  an  uncertain,  lurching  totter  forward 
which  carried  him  rapidly  several  steps  before  Richard 
could  catch  up  with  him.  "  Come  along,  come  along," 
he  said  briskly,  moving  more  steadily  as  he  felt  the 
support  of  the  younger  man's  arm.  "  Kitty,  say  all 
manner  of  pretty  things  to  Mrs.  Dullas  and  her  party 
at  lunch.  Express  my  regret  at  not  being  their  host 
in  my  own  house.  I  leave  you  my  vicar.  It  is  only 
I  who  suffer  by  my  absence.  And  you  will  all  be  over 
later  for  the  speeches." 

When  Tom  came  down,  shining  and  breathless 
after  a  bath  and  a  rapid  toilet,  his  grandfather  had 
been  gone  some  moments. 

"  But  never  mind,  dear.  You  look  very  nice.  I 
shall  be  proud  to  see  you  in  your  grandfather's  place 
at  table,"  said  his  mother  consolingly.  "  And  it  is 
really  not  much  too  early." 

Sylvia  was  suddenly  seized  with  alarm. 

"  O  mamma,  you  are  all  dressed  too !    Is  it  late  ? 


242  IN   THE   HOUSE 

Shall  I  have  to  finish  without  you?  I  can  never  tie 
my  sash  alone !  " 

She  flew  headlong  upstairs,  but  in  spite  of  all  her 
haste  she  only  had  her  mother's  services  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  her  hair.  When  she  came  into  Katherine's 
room  a  few  minutes  later  with  streaming  ribbons,  there 
was  no  one  to  help  her,  and  the  sound  of  resonant 
feminine  voices  and  laughter  coming  through  the  open 
door  from  the  hall  told  that  Mrs.  Dullas  and  her  com- 
pany had  already  arrived,  were  even  then  upon  the 
stairs  on  their  way  to  the  guest  chambers  to  refresh 
their  toilets  after  half  an  hour's  journey  in  the  dusty 
train. 

Sylvia  did  not  remember  ever  having  seen  Ste- 
phen's mother  before,  and  when  she  came  into  the 
parlor  a  little  while  afterward,  more  disturbed  at  the 
thought  of  her  mother's  criticism  than  the  strangers', 
she  was  somewhat  overwhelmed  by  the  large,  florid, 
dressy  lady  who  greeted  her  so  kindly,  in  a  loud, 
friendly  voice,  making  room  for  her  on  the  window 
seat  beside  her,  and  talking  with  embarrassing  frank- 
ness of  Stephen  and  his  desire  that  they  should  both 
be  friends. 

There  were  several  other  ladies  in  the  room,  all 
giving  an  impression  of  color  and  movement  and  very 
good  spirits,  for  they  talked  rapidly  and  laughed  a 
good  deal,  and  seemed  overwhelmingly  pleased  with  all 
they  saw. 

Sylvia  grew  excited,  as  she  always  did  when  sur- 
rounded by  people  who  seemed  to  be  having  a  good 
time.  She  put  her  critical  faculties  to  sleep,  and  told 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  243 

herself  that  this  was  indeed  an  occasion  to  be  enjoyed, 
especially  after  she  had  taken  her  place  at  the  lunch 
table  and  heard  the  voices  lift  themselves  around  her 
again,  after  one  breathless  moment  of  silence  when 
everybody  had  rustled  into  their  seats.  There  had  been 
many  such  occasions  before,  when  she  and  Tom  had 
listened  to  the  same  roar  of  voices  from  the  dining 
room,  though  they  had  only  partaken  of  the  festival 
by  tasting  the  good  things  to  eat  after  they  had  been 
enjoyed  by  the  honored  guests.  But  now  she  looked 
across  at  Tom  himself,  sitting  in  his  grandfather's 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  very  shy  and  a  little 
melancholy  in  his  efforts  to  be  polite  to  Mrs.  Dullas, 
but  looking  so  grown  up  and  nice  in  his  high  white 
collar  and  black  coat  that  Sylvia  quite  admired  him. 

Katherine  had  what  her  daughter  called  her  clear 
look,  no  doubt  in  contrast  to  the  faces  round  her,  which 
were  rather  overblown  and  flushed  with  the  heat  of  the 
day.  Her  voice  was  somewhat  lower  than  the  rest, 
but  she  still  could  make  herself  heard ;  she  talked  very 
little,  but  then  every  one  else  was  talking  so  much  that 
more  seemed  hardly  necessary,  and  the  little  she  did 
say,  rather  added  to  than  took  away  from  the  general 
hilarity. 

They  had  not  nearly  finished  when  they  were  in- 
vaded by  Mrs.  Chandler,  Marjorie,  and  Miss  Porter, 
on  their  way  to  hear  the  speeches  after  the  alumni 
dinner. 

Ethel  exclaimed  when  she  saw  them  still  at  their 
salad : 

"  You  will  be  late !    You  will  miss  the  best !    Come 


244  IN    THE    HOUSE 

along  and  leave  this.  Kitty  won't  mind.  She  wants 
to  go  too." 

"  I  think  the  best  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Dullas,  who 
was  evidently  enjoying  her  lunch  and  did  not  mean  to 
be  disturbed  in  it. 

But  Katherine  exchanged  glances  of  some  intensity 
with  Ethel,  who  came  and  stood  a  moment  beside  her. 

"  It  will  be  a  shame  if  they  keep  you  here,"  she 
murmured,  so  that  no  one  could  hear  but  Sylvia,  who 
sat  nearest.  "  Hurry  them  along.  I  want  you  es- 
pecially to  be  there  at  the  speech  from  the  trustees." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Katherine.  "  But  if  I  am  not, 
I  know  what  you  mean — about  you  and  Richard  and 
your  father's  legacy." 

"  Richard  more  than  me,"  corrected  Ethel,  with 
unusual  humility.  "  We  never  could  have  done  it  at 
all  except  for  him." 

Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  you  more  than  Richard.  You  never  could 
forget  how  much  you  cared." 

Ethel's  face  was  suddenly  shaken  with  unusual 
emotion. 

"  Yes,  I  always  cared.  It  never  ceased  to  be  a 
grief  to  me." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Katherine,  looking  at  her 
with  grave,  affectionate  eyes. 

She  quickly  recovered  herself,  turning  again  to 
Mrs.  Dullas. 

"  You  are  a  disloyal  wife,  sitting  here  enjoying 
yourself  instead  of  rushing  with  the  rest  of  us  to  hear 
your  husband  speak." 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  245 

"  Oh,  I  hear  Henry  every  day  at  home,"  said  that 
lady  calmly,  making  them  all  laugh. 

"  Well,  we  can't  waste  any  more  time  over  you. 
Come,  Nannie,  let's  leave  them  to  their  lunches,  if  that's 
what  they  like  best." 

"  Oh,  may  I  go  too  ?  "  cried  Sylvia. 

Tom,  too,  caught  his  mother's  eye  with  silent  peti- 
tion, and  a  sandy-haired,  pleasant-looking  girl  with  a 
long  nose  also  showed  a  desire  to  see  what  was  to  be 
seen  and  hear  what  was  to  be  heard. 

The  others  settled  back  into  their  seats  and  went 
on  eating  their  salad  with  leisurely  enjoyment. 


XXV 

MARJORIE'S  observant  eyes  had  seen  the  little 
intimate  interview  between  Mrs.   Lawrence 
and  Miss  Porter.    Now,  as  she  walked  along,  clinging 
to  Sylvia's  arm  and  holding  her  back  behind  the  others, 
she  remarked  upon  it  in  her  own  way. 

"  Do  you  suppose  your  mother  is  very  fond  of  Miss 
Ethel?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  answered  Sylvia.  "  I 
never  thought  about  it." 

"Isn't  it  queer,"  continued  the  other,  "to  think 
that  she  might  have  been  your  aunt  ?  " 

"My  aunt!    How?" 

"  Why,  didn't  you  know  ?  She  was  engaged  once, 
long  ago,  to  your  Uncle  John." 

"  But  Uncle  John  is  married  to  Aunt  Amy,"  said 
Sylvia. 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  that  was  much  later.  They  were 
engaged  and  going  to  be  married  when  Judge  Porter 
died.  Every  one  had  thought  he  was  very  rich,  you 
know,  but  it  turned  out  that  he  had  lost  all  his  money, 
so  she  was  poor,  and  she  wouldn't  marry  your  Uncle 
John,  who  was  poor,  too,  and  she  wouldn't  promise 
to  wait  for  him,  so  he  was  angry  and  went  away  to 
Chicago,  and  she  had  to  go  and  live  with  a  horrid, 
cross  aunt.  But  the  aunt  is  dead  now,  and  has  left  her 

246 


IN   THE    HOUSE   OF    HER    FRIENDS    247 

some  of  her  money,  so  she  is  quite  rich  again.  I  won- 
der whether  the  reason  she  never  married  is  because  she 
never  could  meet  any  one  she  cared  for  as  much  as 
your  uncle.  Didn't  you  know  about  it,  Sylvia  ?  Every 
one  knows.  How  funny  your  mother  never  told  you !  " 

"  Mamma  never  tells  me  anything,"  said  Sylvia 
under  her  breath,  with  bitterness  which  had  for  some 
time  been  growing  in  her  at  each  new  evidence  of  her 
own  ignorance  of  the  real  interests  of  her  mother's  life. 

The  alumni  dinner  was  always  held  in  the  college 
gymnasium,  an  ugly,  oblong  building  in  a  grove  of 
locusts  behind  the  library,  near  the  running-track  and 
the  tennis-courts.  The  dinner  was  spread  on  separate 
tables,  for  the  trustees,  faculty,  and  the  different  classes, 
in  the  main  room  of  the  gymnasium,  at  one  end  of 
which  there  was  a  gallery  for  spectators  of  drills  or 
exercises. 

It  was  here  that  Sylvia  found  herself,  having  to 
make  polite  speeches  to  Mrs.  Judge  Daly  and  the  other 
ladies  already  assembled  there,  when  she  wanted  to 
look  down  and  find  out  the  reason  for  all  the  noise  and 
clapping  which  was  going  on  beneath  her. 

"  Come,  Sylvia,"  said  Tom,  as  soon  as  she  was  at 
liberty,  "  here's  a  seat.  Look  over  here  and  you  can 
see  finely." 

He  perched  beside  her  on  the  precarious  wooden 
railing,  and  they  were  soon  equally  absorbed  in  pick- 
ing out  the  faces  of  their  acquaintances  in  the  crowd 
below. 

"  Oh,  there  are  the  Seniors !  "  cried  Sylvia  in  much 
excitement.  "  How  solemn  they  look !  See,  they  are 


248  IN   THE   HOUSE 

beginning  to  smoke  their  little  cigarettes!  I  suppose 
it  wouldn't  be  proper  for  them  to  take  big  cigars  like 
the  rest.  But  where  is  Stephen  ?  " 

"  He's  gone  over  to  sit  with  his  own  class,"  an- 
swered Tom.  "  There  he  is,  by  Jack  Marston.  Do 
you  see  Jack  ?  " 

Sylvia  leaned  far  forward  in  her  eagerness. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  How  pleased  he  must  feel !  But  he 
looks  solemn  too.  No,  there  he  is  laughing;  I  can 
hear  it  up  here.  And  see,  he  is  looking  up.  He  sees 
us!"  She  nodded  and  smiled  with  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment, and  Stephen  continued  to  gaze  up  at  her  even 
after  the  gayety  had  left  his  face  and  given  place  to  a 
sort  of  earnestness  and  intensity  which  changed  him 
from  himself. 

"  He  does  look  very  solemn,"  said  Sylvia  again. 
"  I  must  ask  him  why  when  I  see  him.  And  who's  that 
round-headed  man  with  popping  eyes  and  a  very  short 
neck,  sitting  by  grandfather?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Tom,  scandalized  at  this  rather  un- 
flattering resume  of  a  great  personage,  "  that  is  Henry 
Dullas.  He's  a  corker.  Just  wait  till  you  hear  him 
speak.  He's  better  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  I've 
heard  him  before.  He  is  one  of  us,  you  know,  an  Adel- 
phic.  You  ought  to  have  been  at  the  house  last  night. 
He  kept  all  the  fraternity  in  a  roar." 

"  He  doesn't  look  like  Stephen  at  all,"  said  Sylvia, 
regarding  him  with  some  distaste  in  spite  of  Tom's 
commendation. 

Just  then  the  great  man  rose,  as  master  of  cere- 
monies, to  propose  the  customary  toast  to  the  trustees. 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  249 

It  was  a  somewhat  delicate  position,  since  he  was  one 
of  the  body  to  be  toasted,  but  he  extricated  himself  from 
his  difficulties  with  the  kind  of  humor  which  goes  most 
easily  to  the  American  heart. 

It  was  a  pity  that  Judge  Daly,  who  rose  to  reply, 
was  almost  inaudible  to  most  of  the  assemblage,  though 
he  did  his  best  with  his  thin,  precise  little  voice  in  the 
echoing,  high-roofed,  noisy  room.  And  after  all,  every 
one  knew  already  exactly  what  he  was  saying.  The 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  pledged  by  the  alumni, 
and  other  behests — here  Judge  Daly's  voice  did  for  a 
moment  become  audible — notably  the  legacy  left  the 
college  by  his  lamented  friend  and  colleague  on  the 
Supreme  Bench,  Judge  Porter,  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  the  State,  now  paid  by  his  heirs. 

Sylvia  saw  Mrs.  Chandler  turn  toward  Ethel  with 
sudden,  disappointed  surprise :  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  And 
Ethel's  reply :  "  That  is  all,"  though  she  held  her  spir- 
ited head  a  little  higher. 

And  the  young  girl  felt  vaguely  thrilled  and  excited, 
as  if  in  the  presence  of  a  great  thing,  though  it  was 
treated  like  a  little  one.  And  the  tones  of  Ethel's  voice 
as  she  gave  her  answer  went  echoing  on  for  some  time 
in  her  mind,  as  if  they  had  struck  a  chord  which  re- 
sponded to  them. 

There  was  a  mad  burst  of  applause  from  all  the 
tables,  echoed  valiantly  by  the  ladies'  gallery. 

Only  one  man  sat  grimly  silent.  The  table  for  the 
faculty  was  nearly  deserted.  All  the  alumni  had  drifted 
away  after  the  dinner  to  sit  with  those  of  their  own 
classes  who  had  returned.  Only  Merritt  and  Frank- 


250  IN   THE   HOUSE 

lin  Field  were  left  together,  almost  side  by  side.  The 
older  man  sat  with  drooping  head,  leaning  over  the 
table,  playing  with  his  knife,  a  long  lock  of  his  straight, 
reddish  hair  falling  over  his  forehead.  He  was  so 
frankly  depressed  that  young  Field  found  it  in  his  heart 
to  pity  him,  even  to  express  a  certain  kindness  in  a  few 
empty  words,  but  the  other  rejected  them  roughly. 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  me.  I'm  all  right.  I'm  learn- 
ing." He  relapsed  into  gloomy  silence,  while  Franklin 
turned  his  attention  to  the  little  train  of  Statesburg 
ladies,  who,  with  Mrs.  Lawrence,  appeared  at  last  out 
of  the  crowd  of  waiters  and  hangers  on  at  the  entrance. 

He  would  have  liked  to  go  to  meet  them  as  Richard 
Porter  did,  for  he  knew  several  of  them,  and  wished 
to  commend  himself  to  them,  but  a  strange  weakness 
of  sympathy  and  pity  kept  him  near  the  despondent 
Merritt.  He  contented  himself  with  watching  their 
progress,  Mrs.  Dullas  and  the  other  ladies  with  an  un- 
disturbed front  of  calm  self  consciousness,  Katherine 
with  the  poise  and  presence  taught  by  necessity,  which, 
however,  never  quite  concealed  her  innate  shyness  and 
shrinking  from  the  eyes  and  noise  through  which  she 
must  pass  to  reach  the  spectators'  gallery.  There  she 
could  be  seen  a  moment  after,  standing  looking  down, 
her  hand  on  the  railing  in  front  of  her. 

"  She  is  a  nice  woman,"  said  Merritt  unexpectedly. 
"  My  wife  likes  her." 

"  It  is  a  pity  they  should  be  so  late,"  Franklin  re- 
plied, concealing  his  amused  surprise.  "  They  have 
lost  everything  really  worth  having." 

The  classes  were  being  toasted  now,  beginning  with 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  251 

the  graduating  Seniors.  Merritt  began  again  in  the 
midst  of  the  perfunctory  applause  for  the  careful 
schoolboy  eloquence  of  the  valedictorian,  ending  in  a 
stilted  tribute  to  the  Dean. 

"  Those  boys,  now.  There's  no  denying  it.  They 
go  out  from  here  with  a  rotten  bad  education." 

"  What,  even  in  your  department?  "  said  Franklin 
softly.  But  he  never  got  much  fun  from  innuendo  with 
Merritt.  The  man  was  too  frank,  too  absorbed  by  the 
truth  in  its  one  aspect. 

"  Well,  perhaps  not  there  so  much,"  he  answered 
simply.  "  Though  even  that.  One  man  alone  can't  do 
much  against  a  whole  system — favoritism,  slip-shod 
management,  and  the  boys  sent  through  over  your  head 
quite  regardless  of  fitness."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Franklin  made  no  reply,  and  the  silence  was  un- 
broken between  them,  while  the  speeches  went  on,  one 
class  after  the  other,  till  a  man  arose  from  the  late  '6o's. 

He  came  from  the  South,  and  had  the  gift  of  flowery 
eloquence.  There  was  something  innately  pleasing  in 
his  graceful  sentiment,  which  touched  even  Franklin, 
a  little  bored  by  all  this  incense  to  gods  he  did  not 
recognize.  He  spoke  prettily  of  the  undergraduate 
who  thought  he  was  the  college,  and  openly  showed  his 
contempt  of  the  old  fellows  who  came  back  to  the  re- 
unions, and  then  when  he  in  his  turn  joined  the  army 
of  back  numbers,  how  his  point  of  view  changed,  how 
he  got  to  feel,  and  rightly,  too,  that  the  true  spirit,  the 
true  life,  the  real  ideals  of  a  college  were  preserved  by 
its  alumni. 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  loud  cheers,  and  when 


252  IN    THE   HOUSE 

he  was  heard  again  he  was  speaking  of  the  faculty — 
how  from  enemies,  persecutors,  obstructers  of  innocent 
pleasures,  they  became  the  friends,  the  few  stable  figures 
in  a  world  of  change,  whose  word  of  welcome  and 
recognition  was  received  with  joy  by  men  who  had  once 
themselves  thought  they  owned  the  college,  but  whom 
the  new  generation  did  not  even  know  by  name. 

From  the  faculty  as  a  whole  he  dropped  suddenly 
to  individuals,  and  at  last,  in  a  breathless  moment, 
every  one  found  that  he  was  paying  his  tribute  to  Wil- 
fred Cochran.  "  He  doesn't  know,"  they  whispered  to 
each  other,  and  listened  in  spite  of  themselves;  for  as 
the  man  talked,  who  had  been  in  Wilfred's  class,  who 
knew  only  of  his  early  promise  and  first  fulfilment,  the 
dark  clouds  which  had  obscured  his  end  seemed  sud- 
denly rolled  away,  and  to  the  few  who  had  loved  him, 
and  all  who  had  given  him  a  grudging,  unwilling  ad- 
miration for  his  unquestionable  gifts,  the  man  himself 
came  back  for  a  moment,  almost  as  if  he  had  appeared 
in  the  doorway  and  taken  his  place  among  them — his 
tall,  lithe  figure,  which  never  ceased  to  show  the  sol- 
dier through  the  civilian,  his  cloudy  good  looks  light- 
ened by  his  sudden,  almost  boyish  smile. 

"  But  he  is  dead,"  concluded  his  fellow-classmate, 
"  and  the  college  is  just  so  much  poorer  by  the  loss  of 
that  keen  mind,  that  generous  heart,  and  loyal  devotion 
to  those  he  loved." 

There  was  applause,  faint  at  first,  but  growing 
louder,  and  always  enough  to  cover  the  murmur  of  half 
contemptuous,  half  embarrassed  laughter  which  sprang 
up  also.  But  a  number  of  people  in  the  body  of  the 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  253 

room,  and  more  in  the  spectators'  gallery,  caught  their 
breath  and  cast  glances,  more  or  less  stealthy  but 
sharply  curious,  to  where  Katherine  stood,  quite  still, 
after  her  first  involuntary  movement  of  withdrawal, 
her  hand  on  the  railing,  her  head  a  little  bent  toward 
the  faces  below.  And,  having  once  seen,  those  who 
loved  her  looked  away,  as  if  they  had  no  right  to  what 
they  had  surprised  in  the  rigid  stillness  of  her  face. 

Others  turned  to  one  another  for  corroboration. 
"  You  say  she  cared  for  him  ?  "  "  Oh !  passionately,  my 
dear.  I  have  seen  her  letters  to  him."  "  You  see  no 
signs  of  it?  Oh,  but  that  cold,  regular  kind  of  beauty 
is  so  deceptive.  They  say  she  is  broken-hearted !  " 

Mrs.  Loomis,  saved  from  indiscretion  by  her  dis- 
tance, being  seated  at  quite  the  other  end  of  the  gallery, 
leaned  forward  and  began  to  hold  Mrs.  Judge  Daly 
and  Mrs.  Dullas  in  a  long,  whispered  conversation, 
which  they  seemed  to  find  much  more  interesting  than 
the  next  few  speeches. 

After  a  moment  Katherine  sat  down  in  the  chair 
behind  her  and  leaned  back  out  of  the  sight  of  those 
below. 

At  last  the  Dean  arose,  sole  survivor,  to  reply  to  the 
toast  of  the  class  of  '23.  Every  one  in  the  gallery  and 
in  the  room  became  suddenly  very  silent.  He  was  used 
to  such  moments  of  tense  attention  when  he  arose  to 
address  an  audience ;  he  was  used,  after  a  moment's  al- 
most dramatic  pause,  to  fill  that  silence  at  once  with 
the  full,  thrilling  tones  of  his  beautiful  voice.  But  to- 
day his  first  words  were  so  feeble  and  faltering  as  to  be 
quite  inaudible.  He  coughed  slightly,  and  some  one 


254  IN   THE   HOUSE 

gave  him  a  glass  of  water.  All  at  once  his  flagging 
forces  seemed  to  rally  to  a  demand  never  before  made 
in  vain.  His  voice  gradually  cleared  and  strengthened, 
its  tones  at  last  quite  filled  the  hall,  so  that  every  one 
could  hear,  every  one  admire. 

It  was  only  a  graceful  little  speech  of  thanks  and 
acknowledgment  for  the  many  tributes  of  affectionate 
confidence  and  regard  which  had  been  heaped  upon  him, 
but  its  dignity,  its  perfect  good  taste,  its  charm  of  elo- 
quence, still  showed  with  what  right  he  was  considered 
one  of  the  best  after  dinner  speakers  of  his  time.  He 
touched  very  slightly  on  the  period  of  distress  through 
which  the  college  had  been  passing — had  passed,  he 
hoped,  owing  to  the  generous  help  of  its  many  friends. 
His  voice  thrilled  when  he  spoke  of  this  crowning  ser- 
vice, a  service  whose  forty-eight  years  had  seemed  to 
him  but  a  few  days,  by  reason  of  the  love  he  had  for 
his  alma  mater — love  which,  while  it  had  bidden  him 
in  the  past  put  all  his  energies  at  her  command,  now 
made  him  ready,  glad  even,  to  withdraw  himself,  to 
give  up  his  place  to  others  as  soon  as  he  had  outserved 
his  usefulness,  and  his  college  needed  him  no  more. 

Ethel  sat  with  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks, 
and  made  no  effort  to  wipe  them  away;  Katherine 
leaned  back  out  of  sight  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hand.  Every  one  else  applauded  wildly,  and  Sylvia 
herself  had  a  flash  of  illumination  which  showed  her 
in  a  new  light  the  old  Dean's  almost  childish  obstinacy 
and  desire  for  this  last  Commencement.  She  had  never 
loved  him  before,  but  now  she  felt  she  understood. 
She  sympathized  and  suffered  in  the  thought  of  dis- 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  255 

appointments  and  relinquishments  whose  very  bitter- 
ness lay  in  the  thought  that  they  were  among  the  last 
which  would  ever  be  demanded  of  him.  She  wanted 
to  go  to  him,  to  touch  him,  to  stand  close  beside  him, 
to  make  him  feel  in  some  way  her  tenderness  and  re- 
pentance. She  came  upon  him  at  last,  standing  in  a 
little  group  of  his  boys  on  the  grass  under  the  locust 
trees. 

He  saw  her  at  once,  and  addressed  her,  stammer- 
ing somewhat  over  her  name,  for  he  was  growing  more 
and  more  inclined  to  confound  her  with  all  that  group 
of  slender,  white  robed,  fair  haired  girls — his  sisters, 
his  wife,  who  was  his  cousin,  his  daughters,  who  had 
fluttered  about  him  and  stood  by  his  side,  through  so 
many  past  Commencement  seasons. 

But  Sylvia  drew  back  with  something  like  a  return 
of  her  old  resentment.  The  slip  in  her  name  had  of- 
fended her;  she  felt  the  gulf  of  years  lying  between 
them  too  wide,  her  love  failed  again  when  she  tried 
to  span  it.  She  turned  away  to  Stephen  and  Jack 
Marston,  who  had  hurried  to  join  her,  and  did  not 
make  a  part  of  the  group  who  still  surrounded  her 
grandfather  as  he  walked  slowly  homeward. 

It  was  only  a  little  way;  down  the  smooth  white 
path  between  the  short,  soft  clover,  past  the  offices  and 
Professor  Cochran's  house,  silent  and  deserted,  with 
closed  and  shuttered  windows,  then  beside  the  long, 
white  line  of  the  chapel,  till  he  reached  his  own  door, 
where  Ethel  and  Katherine  and  her  guests  were  waiting 
for  him.  But  even  here  he  would  not  go  in.  He  stood 
on  the  low  steps  greeting  the  old  alumni  as  they 


256  IN    THE   HOUSE 

streamed  past  him,  calling  the  old  fellows  by  their 
names,  asking  intimate  questions  which  showed  that 
he  remembered.  The  younger  men,  those  of  the  last 
ten  years,  came  back  to  his  memory  more  slowly.  Here 
Katherine,  standing  by  his  side,  had  often  to  remind 
him,  to  supply  the  missing  name,  but  he  could  have 
covered  even  greater  lapses  with  his  charming  tact  and 
cordial  manner. 

All  at  once  some  one  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  sang 
a  note  of  the  Senior  song — "  Farewell,  fare  thee  well, 
jolly  old  Dean."  They  caught  it  up  one  after  another, 
till  at  last  they  all  were  singing  it — Ethel's  clear  so- 
prano sustained  by  Franklin's  sweet,  high  tenor  pierc- 
ing through  and  rising  above  the  men's  rougher  voices, 
the  Dean  standing  among  them,  his  tall  figure  drawn  to 
its  full  height,  his  bared  head  thrown  back,  too  simply, 
charmingly  pleased  to  care  to  conceal  it. 

Sylvia  was  at  first  pleased  and  excited  and  joined 
eagerly  in  the  singing.  Then  as  she  saw  the  afternoon 
of  another  beautiful  day  beginning  to  die  in  the  valley, 
as  she  felt  the  plaintive  sadness  of  the  recurrent  minor 
note  in  the  refrain,  she  became  all  at  once  desperately 
melancholy,  and  wished  they  all  would  stop  and  go 
away,  or  sing  something  else.  She  didn't  want  to  be 
sad.  She  wanted  to  go  on  laughing  and  having  a  good 
time  with  Stephen  and  her  cousin,  Jack  Marston. 

"  Where's  Kitty  ?  "  cried  Ethel  at  last,  for  the  crowd 
was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  breaking  up.  "  Gone, 
of  course.  I  might  have  expected  it.  When  did  she 
ever  let  herself  have  a  good  time  ?  Kitty !  Mrs.  Dullas 
is  going." 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  257 

Katherine  appeared  at  once  in  the  doorway,  whiter 
than  ever,  but  smiling  till  she  saw  how  they  still  lin- 
gered, talking  everything  over,  renewing  their  con- 
gratulations to  the  Dean.  Then  she  turned  to  Richard 
with  tears  in  her  voice: 

"  If  I  could  only  get  him  away !  He  is  so  tired,  and 
he  needs  to  rest." 

"  Nonsense,  Kitty,"  replied  Ethel.  "  He  is  all  right. 
This  kind  of  thing  isn't  going  to  hurt  him.  It  will  do 
him  good." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Katherine  almost  plain- 
tively. Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  old  Dean's  face, 
flushed  and  tremulous  with  excitement. 

At  last  Mr.  Dullas  stepped  in  and  saved  the  situa- 
tion by  making  it  humorous.  Every  one  broke  into 
laughter  and  joking. 

"  We  must  go,  we  shall  miss  the  train,"  cried  the 
Statesburg  contingent. 

"  Henry,  call  that  hack !  "  commanded  Mrs.  Dullas 
in  her  loud,  full  voice. 

Her  husband  gave  a  lordly  summons  to  the  large 
barouche  with  its  two  white  horses,  whose  driver  had 
been  lingering  at  a  little  distance,  on  the  lookout  for 
fares,  and  now  hastened  to  drive  up  to  the  door.  Mrs. 
Dullas  then  turned  to  her  hostess,  who  stood  inattentive, 
still  trembling  and  thrilling  with  restrained  excitement. 

"  You  have  been  so  good.  It  has  been  such  a  pleas- 
ure. And  I  can't  help  telling  you — I  do  sympathize 
with  you — I  do  feel  with  you — so  brave !  " 

Whatever  she  meant,  her  words  struck  Katherine 
breathless  and  silent.  She  looked  and  tried  to  speak, 


258  IN   THE   HOUSE 

and  her  manner  answered  the  purposes  of  mechanical 
courtesy,  but  the  expression  of  her  eyes  had  sharpened 
to  a  sort  of  anguish,  of  which  her  face  was  only  a  trem- 
bling mark. 

Mrs.  Dullas  did  not  wait  to  notice  the  effect  she 
had  produced.  She  and  the  little  crowd  of  ladies  who 
had  come  with  her  began  to  invade  the  hack  and  strain 
its  ample  capacity  to  bursting.  The  honorable  Dullas 
himself  got  up  beside  the  driver.  Then  they  all  leaned 
out  and  began  to  make  fun  of  Stephen,  who  was  refus- 
ing their  pressing  invitations  to  come  too.  "  What  are 
you  staying  for?  There  is  nothing  to  keep  you  here 
any  longer."  But  Stephen  had  on  his  perfunctory  man- 
ner and  laughed  dully,  very  much  relieved  when  the 
hack  at  last  rolled  off  round  the  comer. 

Katherine  had  already  gone  into  the  house  with  the 
Dean.  Sylvia  seemed  hesitating,  doubtful.  She  looked 
after  her  mother  and  then  at  Stephen,  and  then  at 
the  mellowing  beauty  of  the  afternoon,  and  the  shad- 
1  ows  of  the  distant  woods.  At  last  she  seemed  to 
'  make  up  her  mind  and  sauntered  off  up  the  lane,  with 
Stephen  triumphant  by  her  side.  The  rest  had  all 
strolled  off  in  different  directions.  Mrs.  Chandler  and 
Marjorie,  with  Franklin  Field  beside  her,  could  still  be 
seen  pacing  under  the  elms  of  the  Promenade  on  their 
way  home.  Ethel  and  Richard  Porter  turned  together 
toward  the  South  Gate. 

Ethel  caught  her  brother's  arm  and  clung  to  it,  for 
she  was  trembling  still,  almost  sobbing  with  excitement. 

"  I  can't  bear  it !  "  she  said.  "  I'll  never  come  again, 
never,  never!  It  is  too  painful,  the  end  of  everything, 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  259 

youth,  happiness — the  best  happiness  I  ever  had.  And 
I  had  thought  of  coming  back  here  to  live !  As  if  that 
was  possible !  I  never  want  to  see  it  again  after  he  is 
gone,  though  it  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  I  love. 
No,  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  now  but  to  go  away 
and  wander  about  the  world,  like  those  battered  waifs 
with  no  home,  nothing  that  belongs  to  them — "  She 
broke  off,  not  trying  to  conceal  her  agitation. 

"  Poor  old  Ethel ! "  said  her  brother  soothingly. 
"  Why  don't  you  come  and  live  with  me?  " 

But  she  had  already  recovered  herself  enough  to 
answer  him  with  friendly  derision.  "  How  long?  Till 
you  marry  ?  No,  indeed.  Don't  think  I  am  going  to 
send  my  roots  into  any  such  precarious  soil  as  that! 
I  am  better  able  to  make  something  out  of  it  now  than 
if  I  were  turned  out  in  the  cold  again  after  a  few  pleas- 
ant years  with  you.  After  all,  I  am  luckier  than  many 
people.  I  can  go  where  I  want,  and  do  what  I  want. 
I  think  I  shall  travel  round  the  wofld.  But  oh,  why 
can't  people  live  forever!  Why  does  everything  have 
to  grow  old  and  change  and  go  away  ?  "  she  cried  again. 
"  I  can't  bear  the  Dean  to  die." 

"  T!iere  will  be  no  one  to  take  his  place,"  said  Rich- 
ard gravely. 

"Oh,  for  the  college,  no!" 

"  For  the  college — yes." 

His  sister  cried  out  indignantly. 

"  I  don't  mean  a  greater.  Probably  when  the  time 
comes  they  will  have  to  be  contented  with  a  much 
smaller  man.  But  whether  it  won't  be  better  for  the 
college  to  tumble  discreetly  and  take  its  place  humbly 


260  IN    THE   HOUSE 

among  the  thousand  and  one  second  rate  institutions 
that  fill  the  land,  instead  of  being  forced  beyond  its  class 
by  a  bigger  man  than  it  is." 

"  Richard !  "  cried  his  sister.  "  How  can  you !  The 
place  your  father  loved  and  spent  his  life  in  serving !  " 

Richard  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  The  day  of 
small  colleges  is  over  for  the  present,"  he  remarked; 
"  at  least  the  kind  you  and  the  Dean  believe  in.  Not 
that  a  small  college  doesn't  still  have  its  use  in  the 
world,  but  a  use  that  can  be  better  fulfilled  by  little  men 
— by  people  like  Merritt,  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Ethel,  assenting  with  renewed  bit- 
terness, "  why  need  I  care  what  happens  now  ?  What 
does  it  matter  ?  At  any  rate,  you  and  I  have  paid  our 
obligations  to  it.  And  I  shall  see  none  of  the  changes 
— for  I  shall  never  come  here  again." 

"  And  I  care  enough  about  it  still,"  said  Richard, 
"  to  be  glad  that  it  has  got  this  boost  financially  to  keep 
it  going  till  its  real  estate  in  the  valley  begins  to  bring 
in  something.  It  looks  now,  Ethel,  as  if  my  father  was 
not  quite  so  mistaken  as  he  has  been  considered  in  ad- 
vising that  investment.  If  those  men  from  the  Grenada 
Steel  Works  buy  as  they  are  talking  of  doing,  across  the 
river,  there  will  be  a  boom  in  Littelton  properties,  and 
you  may  be  a  very  rich  woman  before  you  die." 

Ethel  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I  am  glad  the  col- 
lege got  the  money  now,  while  the  Dean  is  here  to 
enjoy  it,"  she  said  almost  indifferently.  "  Afterward  I 
am  going  to  stop  caring  any  more  for  anything." 

"  It  never  would  have  been  raised  without  Dullas." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.     I  never  felt  so  kindly  to  the 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  261 

Honorable  Henry  S.  before,"  she  answered  with  a  cer- 
tain relief  at  turning  to  lighter  things.  "  And  did  you 
see  Mrs.  Dullas?  Hasn't  she  become  a  dressy  lady? 
It  is  amusing  to  watch  Kitty  being  polite  to  all  those 
people.  She  tries  so  hard,  and  she  is  so  bored  by  them." 

"  Did  my  eyes  deceive  me,  or  did  I  see  that  pretty 
child  of  hers  strolling  off  into  the  distance  with  the 
boy  just  now  ?  " 

"  You  did  indeed.  He  is  openly  devoted  to  her, 
and  papa  and  mamma  Dullas  are  openly  pleased." 

"  What,  Tom's  little  daughter  and  one  of  those ! 
Does  she  like  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Sylvia  is  a  hard  little  thing.  As 
for  heart,  I  don't  believe  it  has  even  begun  to  grow. 
But  that  is  partly  the  way  she  has  been  brought  up. 
Kitty  is  so  intensely  reserved  about  herself,  and  has 
such  strained  notions  about  the  sanctity  of  other  peo- 
ple's affairs,  that  the  child  herself  has  never  had  any 
call  made  upon  her  sympathies  and  intelligence  for  what 
is  going  on  around  her.  Don't  laugh  when  I  tell  you 
that  a  certain  harmless,  kindly  gossip  is  not  a  bad  in- 
fluence in  maturing  and  softening  a  child.  But  Sylvia 
is  a  mixture  of  hard  precocity  and  extraordinary  ig- 
norance! Though  she  is  a  charming  creature,  and  so 
like  her  father,  not  only  in  looks  but  in  everything! 
She  has  little  ways  that  catch  at  my  heart,  they  remind 
me  so  of  him." 

"  I  don't  think  Tom  would  have  liked  his  daughter 
to  marry  one  of  the  Dullases,"  said  Richard  crossly. 

"  My  dear  Richard,  no  one  knows  what  Tom  would 
have  liked  by  this  time.  Think  what  a  boy  he  was 


262    IN    THE    HOUSE  OF   HER   FRIENDS 

when  he  died.  That  seems  to  me  one  of  the  hardest 
things  about  it  for  Kitty.  She  hasn't  even  the  thought 
of  him  to  turn  to  any  more.  Besides — the  Dullases — 
you  needn't  turn  up  your  nose  at  the  Dullases.  They 
say  Henry  will  be  governor  of  the  State  some  day. 
And  they  come  of  good  stock,  originally.  As  their 
position  gets  better  they  can  revert  more  and  more  to 
their  colonial  ancestors  and  leave  the  middle  distance, 
as  it  were,  discreetly  in  the  shade.  And  Stephen  is 
really  a  nice  fellow,  a  dear,  sweet  boy.  Any  girl  might 
be  glad  to  have  him." 

"  I  can't  imagine  Kitty  liking  it  very  much,"  said 
Richard,  still  obstinate. 

"  Yes,  she  does.  She  likes  Stephen  exceedingly. 
Do  you  call  her  Kitty,  Richard  ?  "  concluded  his  sister 
with  her  usual  calm  indiscretion. 

They  had  reached  Miss  Mix's  gate  as  she  spoke. 
He  opened  it  for  her  and  then  closed  it  without  coming 
in,  though  he  leaned  his  arms  on  the  top,  looking  across 
at  her  with  a  sort  of  whimsical  amusement. 

"Do  I  call  her  Kitty?  That  little,  tender  name 
telling  of  a  past  of  petting  somewhere !  " 

"  She  never  got  it  from  the  Lawrences,"  cried  Ethel 
sharply.  "  They  may  adore  their  women,  but  they 
never  pet  them." 

"  From  her  mother,  then.  Poor  baby !  How  she 
must  have  missed  her !  " 

"  Are  you  coming  in  ?  "  asked  his  sister. 

"  No;  I  am  going  for  a  walk." 

"  Give  Kitty  my  love,"  she  persisted,  still  teasingly. 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head  as  he  turned  away. 


XXVI 

DR.  LAWRENCE  died  on  the  very  morning  of 
the  day  that  was  to  have  been  Commencement. 
There  was  no  attempt  at  ceremony  in  the  conferring 
of  degrees.  The  graduating  class  got  their  diplomas 
when  they  called  for  them  at  the  college  office,  and  a 
number  of  them  went  away  immediately  afterward, 
for,  of  course,  the  Commencement  ball  had  to  be  given 
up.  But  a  good  many  stayed  over  to  go  to  the  funeral, 
which  the  Dean's  wide  connections  and  reputation,  even 
more  than  his  position  as  president  of  Littel  College, 
made  something  in  the  nature  of  a  public  event. 

Some  of  the  more  busy  men  among  the  trustees  went 
away  and  came  back  again,  like  Richard  Porter. 

He  found  his  sister  still  at  Miss  Mix's,  lying  full 
length  in  the  breathless  heat,  for  the  weather  had  sud- 
denly turned  very  warm,  in  the  thinnest  of  tea-gowns, 
on  the  wide,  linen-covered  sofa  in  her  room.  She 
greeted  him  with  enthusiasm. 

"  You  back !  How  nice !  Sit  down  in  that  chair 
by  the  window  and  I'll  ring  for  some  ice  and  fizzy  water. 
I  have  my  flask  here,  and  I'll  make  you  a  drink." 

"  Not  at  the  risk  of  bringing  up  that  daughter  of 
Belial,"  said  Richard  in  his  pleasant  voice.  "  It  was 
only  by  the  greatest  agility  that  I  escaped  her  just  now 
in  the  hall" 

263 


264  IN    THE   HOUSE 

"  Poor  Harriet !  "  said  Ethel,  who  shared  the  amaz- 
ing tolerance  all  the  world  of  Littelton  showed  to  the 
rotund  Miss  Mix.  "  It  is  your  own  fault  if  you  are 
thirsty.  I  wouldn't  let  her  stay." 

Richard  shook  his  head. 

"  I'll  smoke  if  you  like,  but  I'll  not  drink  on  those 
risks." 

He  sat  down  in  a  comfortable  chintz  arm  chair  near 
the  window,  where  the  light  drifting  to  and  fro  of 
white  curtains  seemed  to  promise  a  breeze. 

"  Now,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said  making  him- 
self comfortable.  "  What's  going  on  ?  Have  the  John 
Lawrences  come  ?  " 

"  Not  till  this  evening.  But  Mrs.  Bishop  Pringle 
arrived  yesterday,  and  Sylvia  Marston  this  morning. 
Kitty  wrote  and  asked  me  to  meet  her,  so  I  did.  She 
has  grown  so  old,  Richard.  I  rushed  to  the  looking- 
glass  in  positive  alarm  as  soon  as  I  came  home  again. 
It  was  a  little  reassuring.  But  I  wonder  what  she  is 
saying  about  me." 

"  Then  of  course  you  have  seen  Mrs.  Lawrence?  " 

"  Only  a  moment,  when  I  went  there  with  Sylvia 
Marston.  You  know  she  is  frightfully  busy.  Every- 
thing has  fallen  on  her  to  do,  for  John  doesn't  even 
arrive  till  this  evening,  and  young  Tom  is  nothing  but 
a  boy.  She  would  have  liked  it  to  be  very  simple,  but 
that  is  quite  impossible.  He  was  connected  with  so 
many  things  that  wish  to  be  represented,  besides  the 
college.  And  the  letters  that  have  to  be  written!  I 
have  helped  her  a  little  in  that,  and  of  course  there  are 
plenty  of  people  more  than  ready  to  do  anything  for  her. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  265 

She  makes  use  of  us  all  to  a  certain  extent,  but  at  a  dis- 
tance. No  one  is  really  let  in.  She  sees  no  one,  not 
even  Nannie  or  me,  except  for  a  moment  in  the  most 
formal  way.  It  hurts  my  feelings  a  little,  I  confess. 
She  is  so  sweet  and  cordial  and  affectionate  on  ordi- 
nary occasions  that  one  is  deceived  into  thinking  she 
really  cares  for  one.  Then  comes  an  emergency  like 
this,  which  makes  her  betray  how  perfectly  she  can  do 
without  any  of  us.  Yet  she  tries  so  hard  to  be  nice, 
and  has  the  most  punctilious  care  of  everybody's  feel- 
ings. Albion,  for  instance,  gets  a  long  list  of  instruc- 
tions about  the  treatment  of  the  faculty  at  the  funeral, 
every  one  remembered,  every  one's  prejudices  and  vani- 
ties and  precedents  considered  and  propitiated.  You 
remember  how  the  dear  old  Dean  was  always  getting 
himself  into  trouble  that  way,  the  blood-curdling  things 
that  happened  from  his  forgetting  somebody  altogether, 
or  putting  some  one  else  in  the  wrong  place  whenever 
he  had  anything  to  do  on  occasions  of  ceremony  ?  But 
who  ever  cared  really?  And  she  could  have  trampled 
on  all  their  prejudices  and  set  them  all  by  the  ears,  and 
they  wouldn't  have  minded  it  half  as  much  as  they  do 
her  entire  independence  of  them,  her  perfect  aloofness. 
It  isn't  the  custom  here,  where  every  one  knows  every- 
thing about  everybody.  But  that  has  been  Kitty's  way 
always.  I  wouldn't  say  it  to  any  one  except  you,  but 
it  is  little  things  like  this  in  the  past  which  have  made 
people  unfriendly  to  her — people  to  whom  she  has  been 
uniformly  kind — only  too  glad  to  do  her  a  bad  turn 
when  it  fell  in  their  way.  Like  Harriet  and  those  letters 
of  hers,  for  instance.  Oh,  I  forgot !  Don't  you  know  ? 


266  IN    THE   HOUSE 

I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you.  But  it  doesn't  matter  really 
— besides,  it's  public  property.  Richard,  did  you  ever 
imagine  there  was  anything  between  her  and  Wilfred 
Cochran?" 

Richard  hesitated. 

"  When  I  was  here  last,  some  time  ago,  you  remem- 
ber, it  was  very  easy  to  see — at  least  I  thought  then  that 
he — in  short  I  felt  rather  sorry  for  him." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  have  fejt  sorry  for  him ;  at  least 
not  for  that.  Evidently  you  never  seriously  considered 
the  possibility  of  her  growing  to  care  for  him." 

"  To  care !  "  echoed  Richard.  "  There  are  a  great 
many  ways  of  caring.  She  was  always  very  good  to 
him,  very  much  interested  in  him,  very  fond  of  him, 
if  you  will." 

"  Nonsense.  You  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Ethel 
impatiently.  "  She  was  in  love  with  him." 

"  This  is  gossip,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No ;  I  saw  her  letters  to  him,  written  before  his 
marriage." 

"What?"  said  Richard. 

"  He  had  kept  them,  you  see.  His  wife  found  them 
afterward  among  his  papers  and  gave  them  to  Harriet 
Mix.  Every  one  has  seen  them." 

"  Cad !  "  said  Richard  through  his  cigar. 

"  No,  that  isn't  fair.  I  might  have  said  so  myself 
if  I  hadn't  seen.  But  they  were  read  to  tatters.  I  felt 
very  sorry  for  him.  He  couldn't  help  it." 

"  What's  become  of  them  ?  "  said  Richard  sharply. 

"  Oh,  they  came  to  me  in  the  course  of  time,  as  you 
might  imagine,  and  I  made  her  give  them  up  at  once, 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  267 

which  she  did  the  more  readily  as  she  was  frightened 
out  of  her  wits  at  the  temper  I  showed.  You  see  she 
rather  betrayed  me,  surprised  me  into  hearing  parts  of 
them.  At  first  I  didn't  know  at  all  whose  they  were. 
I  was  told  to  guess — fancy,  to  guess — and  then  there 
came  little  turns  of  expression,  so  simple,  so  touch- 
ing, and  yet  so  characteristic  I  wanted  my  own  eyes 
to  assure  me.  I  sent  them  back  to  Kitty  that  same 
evening." 

"And  then?" 

"  I  got  a  little  note  from  her  the  next  day,  a  grateful, 
colorless  little  note  acknowledging  them,  thanking  me 
for  the  trouble  I  took  in  getting  them.  Nothing  more. 
Not  one  word,  not  one  look.  Not  once  since  has  she 
made  the  slightest  allusion  to  it,  though  I  have  seen 
her  every  day.  Oh,  yes,  once!  Nannie  exclaimed  in 
that  blundering  way  of  hers  when  Harriet  turned  up 
as  usual  at  the  Dean's  reception  and  Kitty  was  civil  to 
her :  '  I  don't  see  how  you  can  notice  her,  after  the 
harm  she's  done  you.'  And  Kitty  caught  her  up.  '  Oh, 
hardly  harm,  I  think !  Besides,  she  may  have  forgotten 
it  when  she  spoke  to  me,  and  you  would  hardly  expect 
me  to  remind  her.' ' 

Richard  gave  a  short  laugh.    His  sister  went  on. 

"  You  can  imagine  what  gall  and  wormwood  it 
would  all  be  to  her — I  mean  the  publicity.  How  much 
she  still  really  cares  for  him  I  haven't  an  idea.  I  should 
have  thought  it  had  been  pretty  well  knocked  out  of  her 
in  the  last  two  or  three  years.  Any  one  else  would  be 
feeling  it  a  lucky  escape.  He  went  all  to  pieces  before 
he  died,  you  know.  But  Kitty  is  different  from  any- 


268  IN    THE   HOUSE 

body  else.  There  is  something  quite  exquisite  in  the 
expression  of  those  long  blue  eyes  of  hers  nowadays 
— a  look  almost  like  an  illumination,  which  comes  some- 
times with  suffering.  I  am  very  sorry  for  her,  though 
I  shouldn't  dare  to  tell  her  so.  Poor  Kitty!  She 
doesn't  care  a  bit  for  me,  but  she  was  very  good  to  me 
once  when  I  was  down  on  my  luck.  No  one  else  could 
have  been  quite  so  appreciative,  quite  so  comforting. 
I  shan't  forget  it.  She  is  very  sweet  but  very  cold.  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether  she  ever  really  cared  even 
for  Cochran  more  than  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  him 
in  that  little  way  of  hers,  as  if  she  couldn't  help  it.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  was  that  as  much  as  anything  else  that 
sent  him  off  again.  If  she  had  gone  straight  ahead  and 
married  him,  as  he  wanted  her  to  do,  I  believe  he  would 
have  been  alive  and  happy  at  this  moment." 

"  Well,  all  that  is  beyond  my  ken,"  said  Richard 
easily.  "  I  can  only  quote  my  father's  monumental 
saying :  '  I  have  no  personal  experience  in  the  matter. 
To  repeat  what  I  have  heard  from  outsiders  would  be 
gossip ;  to  repeat  what  my  friends  themselves  have  con- 
fided in  me  would  be  a  betrayal  of  trust.  I  must  there- 
fore beg  to  be  excused  from  expressing  any  opinion 
whatever.' ' 

Ethel  laughed. 

"  Are  you  going  down  with  me  to-morrow  ?  "  he 
continued.  "  I  have  to  take  the  12.40  to  connect  with 
the  express  at  Statesburg." 

"  No ;  I  shall  stay  on  a  day  or  two  longer — I  want 
to  say  good-by  to  Kitty — I  don't  know  when  I  shall 
see  her  again.  They  may  go  abroad.  You  won't  see 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  269 

her  at  all  if  you  dash  off  like  that  immediately  after  the 
funeral." 

"  I  thought  I  would  go  over  this  afternoon.  Do 
you  think  she  would  let  me  in  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  You  might  go  and  send 
in  your  card ;  that  will  give  her  a  chance,  if  she  wants 
to  see  you." 

But  he  could  not  flatter  himself  that  he  was  let  in  by 
anything  but  accident  when  he  was  ushered  directly  into 
her  presence  in  the  dark,  shuttered  parlor  where  she  was 
standing  talking  to  a  bland  faced,  black  coated  person 
whose  business  was  only  too  painfully  evident.  He  saw 
her  start  of  dismay  as  she  felt  herself  caught  unawares, 
and  said  in  a  great  hurry :  "  I  am  going.  I  didn't  mean 
to  get  in.  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you.  Don't  see  me 
unless  you  wish." 

But  as  soon  as  she  recognized  him,  she  caught  at 
his  hand  and  held  it  a  moment,  half  unconsciously,  in 
her  desire  to  restrain  him  as  he  was  turning  away. 

"  Don't  go,  don't  go,  Richard,"  she  said  almost 
plaintively.  "  I  want  to  see  you." 

"  But  you  are  busy,"  he  objected. 

"  Only  a  minute."  She  still  kept  her  fingers  on  his 
arm  while  she  finished  the  directions  she  was  giving, 
and  dismissed  the  undertaker's  man. 

"  I  shan't  stay  if  you  don't  want  me,"  Richard  as- 
sured her  anxiously. 

"  But  I  do  want  you.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she 
reiterated  with  pathetic  earnestness. 

It  was  the  cry  which  is  finally  wrung  from  every 
human  soul,  however  solitary,  however  unexpressive, 


270  IN    THE   HOUSE 

the  anguish,  the  craving  to  be  heard,  to  be  understood, 
to  be  comforted.  And  Katherine  turned  in  her  extrem- 
ity not  to  a  woman,  for  she  feared  instinctively  the  more 
than  understanding  of  the  most  discreet  woman,  her 
intrusions  of  tenderness,  the  keen  seeing  vision  which 
never  overlooks  one  little  humiliating  detail  of  the  dis- 
integrating effects  of  suffering,  but  traces  it  back  to 
its  reason,  and  gives  it  more  than  its  meaning,  the  swift 
interpretation  which  takes  more  than  is  given,  and 
breaks  down  the  last  remnant  of  self  control  when  it 
has  staggered  in  the  agony  of  self  revelation,  yet  is 
still  struggling  to  regain  itself. 

She  turned  to  Richard  because  she  knew  him  of  old 
and  he  had  never  disappointed  her,  and  she  trusted 
his  sentiment  for  her,  feeling  instinctively  that  his 
tenderness,  his  reverence,  would  protect  her  in 
his  very  thought  when  she  could  no  longer  protect 
herself. 

So  he  came  and  sat  down  on  a  little  chair,  while 
she  took  her  place  opposite  against  the  cushions  of  the 
high  backed  sofa. 

But  for  a  few  moments  they  talked  of  very  simple 
things — her  plans,  which  still  depended  a  little  on 
Tom's  success  with  the  West  Point  examinations. 

"  But  I  don't  think  there  is  much  danger  of  his 
failing.  Poor  fellow !  It  has  been  his  desire  from  the 
time  he  was  a  very  little  fellow,  though  of  course  it 
was  out  of  the  question  while  his  grandfather  wanted 
him  here." 

Then  they  spoke  of  the  Dean.  "  Oh,  I  can't  tell 
you  how  glad  I  am  it  ended  this  way !  "  cried  Kather- 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  271 

ine,  almost  passionately.  "  It  is  so  much  better  than 
what  I  have  been  fearing  day  after  day  for  so  long.  He 
wore  himself  out  to  the  end,  and  when  the  time  came  for 
him  to  rest,  to  spare  himself,  he  died,  for  he  didn't  know 
how.  But  to  linger  for  years  as  his  uncle  did  after  his 
usefulness  was  over!  That  would  have  been  too  hor- 
rible for  him — and  for  me,"  she  added  in  a  lower  voice. 
"  So  for  him  I  feel  nothing  but  a  sort  of  triumph  that 
he  has  escaped  from  his  enemies.  For  myself — oh,  for 
myself,"  she  added  simply,  "  I  am  breaking  my  heart 
already  with  missing  him." 

Richard  murmured :  "  He  was  a  fine  old  fellow. 
Every  one  will  miss  him." 

"  Who  do  they  put  in  his  place  ?  "  asked  Katherine, 
suddenly  looking  straight  at  him. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  with  a  sort  of  embarrass- 
ment. "  You  wouldn't  like  to  know.  Don't  ask  me  to 
tell  you." 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  know.  I'll  have  to  know,  Rich- 
ard," she  added  plaintively.  "  Why  should  I  mind  ? 
Who  is  it?" 

"  It  is  only  a  temporary  appointment,"  he  said  at 
last,  almost  apologetically.  "  You  see,  we  were  in  a  fix. 
It  is  so  hard  to  get  one  who  can  step  right  in  and  go 
to  work." 

"I  see.    Who  is  it?" 

"  Well,  Judge  Daly  is  made  president  pro  tem. — 
the  official  head,  as  it  were,  with — it  is  only  a  tem- 
porary appointment,  till  they  see  how  it  works,  but  they 
have  put  in  Merritt  as  acting  dean." 

Katherine  was  silent,  but  her  face  changed  and  stif- 


272  IN   THE   HOUSE 

fened  in  her  effort  to  control  her  painful  surprise.  Then 
she  drew  a  short  breath  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  After  all,  why  should  I  care  ?  Perhaps  he  is  what 
they  need.  No  doubt  the  trustees  could  find  no  one 
more  suitable." 

Richard  laughed  a  little.  "  You  are  too  proud  even 
to  hate  your  enemies,"  he  said  with  amused  admiration ; 
but  she  answered  with  sudden  bitterness,  as  if  he  had 
touched  something  that  hurt  her : 

"  Proud,  you  call  me  proud !  "  and  sat  a  moment 
silent,  looking  out  in  front  of  her  with  strained,  melan- 
choly eyes.  Then  she  began : 

"  You  may  have  heard.  People  have  been  very 
much  interested  in  my  affairs  lately.  I  have  been 
very  much  pitied,  I  believe,  by  my  friends  and  neigh- 
bors  " 

"  Don't  say  anything  more  about  it,"  said  Richard 
hastily.  "  It  is  nobody's  business  but  your  own." 

"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it,"  said  Kath- 
erine  wistfully.  "  I  want  to  tell  you,  Richard.  I 
thought,  oh,  I  was  very  sure,  for  I  hadn't  wanted  to 
believe  it,  and  the  assurance  came  at  last  with  a  sort 
of  agony — but  I  thought  I  loved  him;  and  through 
it  all  I  thought  that,  oh,  nearly  to  the  end,  but 
the  last  seems  to  have  burned  it  away.  And  that 
is  the  worst  of  all — that  I  wasn't  able  to  bear  it  to 
the  end.  It  was  of  too  poor  stuff  to  last  through 
adversity." 

"  It  isn't  so.  You  misjudge  yourself,"  said  Rich- 
ard in  a  great  hurry.  "  All  love  can't  be  put  to  the 
same  usage.  You  aren't  made  for  brutal  usage  or  hu- 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  273 

miliation  or  any  of  the  other  results  of  degrading  vices. 
It  would  kill  you,  that's  all." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  "  But  other  women 
have  stood  those  tests." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  other  women,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  sudden  rage.  "  You  don't  know  anything 
about  them.  It  is  you  we  are  thinking  about,  and  you 
have  every  right  to  resent  what  you  have  been  made 
to  suffer.  You  are  too  fine  for  it.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  And  do  you  think  that  makes  me  more  valuable  ?  " 
she  asked  with  a  little,  sad  smile ;  then  continued,  with 
a  sudden  rush  of  feeling :  "  But,  Richard,  I  did  under- 
stand. I  did  care,  I  did  forgive  him.  I  was  deeply 
pitiful — more — it  made  me  hardly  feel  the  need  of 
excuses  for  him  for  everything  but  this  last.  But, 
Richard,  knowing  her,  knowing  himself,  knowing  all 
I  might  have  been  exposed  to,  how  could  he,  how  could 
he  go  away  and  not  destroy  those  letters !  " 

Richard  looked  fixedly  at  the  end  of  his  boots.  "  I 
don't  know,"  he  answered  rather  feebly. 

But  she  went  on,  hardly  conscious  of  him,  follow- 
ing the  train  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  It  was  never  easy.  I  never  got  over  the  feeling 
that  it  was  an  outrage  for  me  to  care  again.  But  I 
know  my  own  weaknesses.  I  have  an  unfortunate  re- 
serve. It  isn't  quite  voluntary,  but  it  keeps  the  people 
I  love  best  from  ever  knowing  how  much  I  care  for 
them.  Such  things  add  unnecessary  bitterness  to 
death,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone.  "  I  thought  I  had 
learned  that.  So  I  said  more — not  more  than  I  felt — " 


274  IN   THE   HOUSE 

she  trembled  a  little  in  the  bare  truth  of  her  revelation — 
"  but  more  than  I  wished,  more  than  I  ever  thought 
I  could.  And  he  was  very  good  to  me,  very  generous, 
and  infinitely  patient,  so  that  when  I  knew,  myself,  it 
seemed  only  fair  to  him.  And  my  father-in-law  was 
so  fond  of  him,  so  dependent  on  him.  There  seemed 
so  much  to  recommend  it."  But  in  a  moment  she  added 
almost  fiercely :  "  No,  there  was  nothing  to  recommend 
it!  Nothing  but  danger  in  it!  For  me — that  didn't 
matter — but  for  every  one  connected  with  me.  I  had 
no  right.  It  was  not  my  own  risk.  I  was  mistaken 
— I  was — but  you,  Richard,  you  find  excuses  for  me. 
Can  you  tell  me  why  I  should  be  punished  so  unmerci- 
fully?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  anguished  ques- 
tion in  her  beautiful,  shrinking  eyes,  but  he  was  star- 
ing the  other  way,  frowning  a  little,  and  veiling  his  light 
eyes  behind  his  lighter  eyelashes.  She  fell  back  into 
her  old  attitude,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  looking  widely 
out  before  her,  speaking  half  to  herself. 

"  Nothing  has  been  spared  me  to  make  it  intolerable, 
all  my  weaknesses,  the  little  things  on  which  I  prided 
myself.  And  now  my  letters.  You  may  say  why 
should  I  mind?  I  have  done  nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of.  But  I  do  mind,  Richard;  I  am  not  without  forti- 
tude, I  can  bear  a  good  deal.  I  have  borne  things  in 
the  past,  you  know,  without  complaining." 

Richard  gave  a  little  inarticulate  murmur  of  assent. 

"  But  this  I  cannot  bear !  No,  I  cannot  bear  it !  If 
I  had  had  to  go  on  living  here  I  should  have  become 
one  of  those  strange  creatures  who  hide  themselves 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  275 

between  four  walls,  shrinking  from  the  light  and  the 
sight  of  their  fellow  creatures." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  clasping  her 
fingers  across  her  brows  and  holding  them  there  while 
she  went  on  talking. 

"  At  any  minute,  when  I  might  be  least  expecting 
it,  there  always  can  come  that  look,  that  pitying,  pry- 
ing look,  to  remind  me  that  they  think  they  hold  the 
key.  I  never  used  to  care  much,  though  their  gossip- 
ing, slanderous  tongues  often  did  their  best  to  hurt  us. 
But  now,  somehow,  I  feel  myself  at  their  mercy. 
Every  one,  my  own  servants,  Sylvia " 

"  Oh,"  said  Richard,  "  how  could  she  know  ?  " 

Katherine  looked  up  with  restrained  bitterness. 

"  What  scruple  of  delicacy  do  you  think  there  may 
be  among  my — my  neighbors  to  keep  them  from  telling 
Sylvia  all  she  chooses  to  listen  to  about  her  mother? 
Oh,  no!  It  is  not  my  imagination.  Sylvia  knows 
enough — I  can  never  go  into  explanations  with  her,  so 
I  shall  never  know  exactly  what  form  the — the  story 
took  for  her  ears — and  Tom,  of  course.  It  was  Tom, 
in  fact,  who  was  chosen  to  bring  me  back  my  letters." 

"  Damn  their  stupidity !  "  said  Richard  under  his 
breath. 

"  Oh,  no !  It  does  not  really  matter — I  should  have 
imagined  it  if  I  had  not  known  it.  Besides,  he  scarcely 
ever  thinks  of  it.  But  I  see  it  in  Sylvia's  eyes  every 
time  she  looks  at  me.  No  doubt  I  deserve  it.  I  had 
no  right  to  the  feeling  they  both  had  for  me." 

"  What  nonsense,"  said  Richard  almost  roughly. 
"  You  have  a  right  to  everything  most  perfect  and  de- 


276  IN    THE   HOUSE 

voted,  and  if  your  daughter  doesn't  adore  you  she  is 
not  worthy  of — of  her  father,"  he  concluded  rather 
abruptly. 

Katherine  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes  again. 

"  I  know.  I  am  probably  exaggerating  it  all,"  she 
said  under  her  breath.  "  I  always  feel  that  possibility 
in  myself.  But  you  are  right  in  saying  there  are  some 
things  killed  of  hard  usage.  There  are  things  in  my- 
self that  are  being  killed — good  things.  For  instance, 
I  am  cruel  to  Sylvia." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Richard. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  cannot  help  it.  She  is  always  trying 
to  come  too  near,  and  it  hurts  me — no  doubt  she  has 
a  right  to  demand  explanations  from  me.  I  ought  not 
to  mind  giving  them.  It  is  nothing  I  am  ashamed  of. 
But  I  cannot — no,  that  is  one  thing  I  can  never  discuss 
with  her.  It  would  be  too  insulting  to  us  both,"  she 
added  with  restrained  vehemence. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  wants  explanations,"  said 
Richard  easily.  Then  he  drew  a  long  breath,  moved 
a  little  on  his  chair  and  changed  his  tone. 

"  And  speaking  of  Sylvia,  what  is  this  I  hear  about 
her  and  that  long  legged  young  jackanapes,  Henry  Dul- 
las's  son  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Katherine  with  a  sudden  return  of  nat- 
ural interest.  "  Yes,  I  believe  people  have  been  con- 
necting their  names  together.  It  is  more  serious  than 
most  student  attachments,  because,  young  as  he  is,  he 
is  in  a  position  to  marry.  But  they  are  both  such  chil- 
dren. How  can  they  know  their  own  minds  ?  " 

"  Such  children,  are  they?  "    Richard  looked  at  her, 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  277 

a  smile  and  a  tone  in  his  slow,  pleasant  voice  that  made 
her  draw  her  brows  together,  half  in  amusement,  half 
in  annoyance. 

"  At  any  rate  it  has  come  to  nothing  yet." 

"  Nothing,"  echoed  Richard.  "  Then  that  is  your 
daughter's  fault  rather  than  the  young  man's.  I  my- 
self was  an  involuntary  onlooker  on  that  interesting 
occasion." 

"  Richard,  you  are  joking!  When  did  you  see  Syl- 
via with  Stephen  and  without  me  ?  " 

"  The  afternoon  of  the  dinner,  in  the  woods  behind 
the  college  pasturage,  in  a  certain  little  winding  path 
by  the  brook,  which  leads  to  a  certain  seat  under  a  stone 
bridge.  I  think  you  know  them  both  well." 

He  wouldn't  go  on  till  she  had  acknowledged  him 
with  a  little,  painful  smile,  though  the  things  his  words 
were  meant  to  recall  had  in  themselves  nothing  painful. 

But  she  returned  quickly  to  the  subject  of  her 
anxiety. 

"  Oh,  that  afternoon !  I  don't  remember.  It  might 
very  well  have  been.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  I  had  been  wandering  off  by  myself,  revisiting 
some  of  my  old  haunts,  and  I  was  sitting — just  in  the 
same  place  and  the  same  way  I  sat,  oh,  too  many  years 
ago,  and  looked  down  the  path  and  saw  you  and  Tom 
coming  along  together  the  first  time  I  ever  met  you. 
Well,  now  it  was  Sylvia  and  young  Dullas.  You  know 
where  the  bars  come  that  lead  into  the  pasture  ?  " 

Katherine  nodded  silently. 

"  Well,  they  stopped  there.  I  could  see  them 
plainly,  though  of  course  I  couldn't  hear — it  was  not 


278  IN   THE   HOUSE 

necessary,  I  didn't  even  have  to  imagine  it.  I  could 
supply  it  all  from  my  own  experience.  He  is  a  good 
looking  fellow  enough.  At  first  he  seemed  inclined  to 
bluster — I  don't  believe  he  has  received  many  rebuffs 
in  his  life.  But  she  was  evidently  quite  merciless.  She 
is  still  too  young  to  feel  much  compunction  for  the 
wounds  she  makes,  and  for  that  reason  she  is  probably 
the  less  dangerous." 

He  paused  again  till  he  made  Katherine  look  at  him 
and  smile  a  little. 

"  At  the  end  he  was  quite  pathetically  cast  down ; 
I  really  found  it  in  my  heart  to  pity  him,  as  he  went 
striding  off  through  the  deep  grass  of  the  pasture,  leav- 
ing her  looking  out  after  him,  with  her  elbows  on  the 
bars.  After  a  decent  time  I  joined  her,  and  we  walked 
home  together,  making  no  reference  whatever,  either  of 
us,  to  what  we  both  were  thinking  about." 

"  Oh,"  said  Katherine,  with  a  certain  relief  in  her 
tone,  "  that  is  what  Stephen  must  mean  by  the  note  I 
got  from  him.  He  begs  me  to  forgive  him  and  wants 
to  see  me.  He  has  broken  his  promise  not  to  speak  to 
Sylvia  without  telling  me  beforehand.  Poor  boy !  He 
asks  to  come  this  afternoon." 

"  Well,  I  call  that  indecent  of  him,"  said  Richard 
crossly. 

"  Oh,  no !  It  is  Stephen.  He  is  very  self  absorbed, 
very  much  set  on  his  own  desires.  He  is  apt  to  over- 
look other  things.  But  he  is  a  dear  boy.  It  is  hard 
to  tell  exactly  how  he  will  turn  out,  but  he  has  quali- 
ties which  would  make  a  woman  very  happy  if  she  was 
a  little  merciful  to  him." 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  279 

"  I  believe  you  are  sorry  for  him.  You  would  help 
him  if  you  can.  You  are  a  match  maker,  like  the  rest  of 
them.  You  would  like  your  daughter  to  marry  him." 

He  spoke  half  in  fun,  but  she  turned  upon  him 
almost  fiercely. 

"  Richard,  how  can  you  say  such  things  even  in 
joke !  I  want  Sylvia  to  marry  anybody !  Is  there  any 
one  else  left  now  in  the  world  for  me  but  her?  But 
of  course  that  wouldn't  make  any  difference  if  they 
loved  one  another.  They  will  be  separated  now  for  a 
little  while,"  she  went  on  more  gently,  "  but  if  he 
chooses  to  wait  and  if  she  cares,  what  can  I  do  but 
help  them  ?  " 

"  You  must  be  glad  to  get  away,"  he  said. 

She  sat  a  moment  silent,  but  answered  at  last, 
sighing. 

"  Yes,  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  to  go  on  living 
here.  As  one  grows  older  every  new  loss  must  have 
some  of  its  roots  in  the  old,  but  this  seems  to  bring  it 
back  again  from  the  very  beginning.  I  miss  Tom,  for 
instance,  everywhere,  almost  as  I  did  at  first.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  leave  this  house." 

"  And  go  back  to  your  own  people  and  your  own 
places,"  said  Richard  comfortably.  "  You  will  be  glad 
to  see  them  all." 

She  responded  with  almost  pathetic  eagerness: 
"  Oh,  yes !  Ruth  has  cabled  that  she  won't  leave  Paris 
till  we  join  her.  It  seems  almost  like  a  dream  to  think 
of  being  there  again.  There  has  never  been  a  spring 
that  I  haven't  been  homesick  to  see  it  again,  its  foun- 
tains and  lilacs  in  the  flower-market  by  the  Madeleine, 


280  IN    THE   HOUSE 

and  the  soft  little  breeze,  full  of  the  perfume  of  the 
lime  trees  in  the  Faubourg  gardens  and  fresh  with  the 
wet  wood  pavement." 

"  You  have  never  got  over  anything,"  said  Richard 
in  a  sort  of  amazement. 

She  answered  with  a  sad,  half  scornful  smile. 

"  You  think  so  ?  I  seem  to  myself  to  have  been  a 
very  poor  thing  for  constancy."  Then  as  he  rose  to 
go :  "  Give  my  love  to  Ethel.  I  never  can  thank  her 
for  what  she  did  for  me.  But  perhaps  she  understands. 
I  am  very  fond  of  Ethel." 

"  She  hopes  to  see  you  again  before  she  goes." 

"  Yes,  oh  yes.    But  not  you  ?  " 

"  No;  I  leave  to-morrow  at  noon." 

She  rose  at  last  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  can't  be  grate- 
ful enough.  Life  had  got  to  be  a  kind  of  anguish 
almost  intolerable,  and  you  have  made  it  possible  again. 
You  have  restored  its  values  to  me.  No  one  need  tell 
me  that  I  make  a  great  part  of  my  own  suffering.  I 
know  it  too  well  already.  It  is  a  weakness  to  be  hurt 
all  the  time  as  I  am,  by — by  instinct,  as  it  were,"  she 
concluded  with  a  melancholy  little  laugh.  "  But  I  do 
try  to  live  simply  and  normally,  to  keep  things  in  their 
proper  proportions,  even  when  I  fail.  I  am  not  made 
to  find  life  very  easy." 

He  took  both  her  hands  and  bent  over  them,  say- 
ing with  a  kind  of  extravagant  tenderness :  "  It  is  not 
your  fault.  You  have  never  found  anything  in  life 
good  enough  for  you.  There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
worthy  even  to  tie  your  shoe." 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  281 

She  received  his  leave  taking  with  affectionate 
amusement. 

"  You  are  always  so  good  to  me,  Richard.  I  have 
ceased  to  wonder  why." 

In  the  hall  they  found  Stephen,  pale  and  anxious, 
speaking  solemnly  to  Molly. 

"  May  I  see  you  ?  May  I  see  you  just  a  moment  ?  " 
he  said,  starting  toward  Katherine  as  soon  as  she  ap- 
peared at  the  parlor  door. 

She  received  him  kindly,  even  while  sending  across 
his  shoulder  a  little  deprecating  smile  at  Richard  tak- 
ing his  departure. 


XXVII 

I  HAVE  no  right.    I  oughtn't  to  come,  but  I  can't 
stay  away  and  have  you  think  things  about  me 
without  trying  to  make  you  understand,"  cried  the 
young  man  clamorously,  as  he  found  himself  alone 
with  her  in  the  darkened  parlor. 

"  What  things,  Stephen  ?  Sit  down  and  tell  me 
quietly.  I  have  been  thinking  nothing  disagreeable 
about  you." 

"  Hasn't  Sylvia  told  you?  " 

Katherine  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

He  dropped  down  on  the  sofa  and  buried  his  face 
on  the  high  cushioned  arm. 

"  She  doesn't  care  for  me — she  doesn't  care  for  me 
at  all.  And  she  says  she  never  will,"  he  groaned  de- 
spairingly. "  Don't  be  angry  with  me  for  breaking 
my  promise.  I  didn't  mean  to,  but  a  man  can't  always 
help  himself." 

"  I  know,  poor  boy,"  answered  Katherine,  with  the 
facile  feminine  forgiveness  which  is  not  so  much  mer- 
ciful to  weakness  as  recognizant  of  strength.  "  I  am 
very  sorry  for  you.  I  wish  I  could  do  anything  to 
comfort  you." 

He  raised  his  pallid,  boyish  face,  still  pitiful  in  the 
pained  surprise  of  his  first  defeat. 

"  But  aren't  you  going  to  help  me  ?  " 
282 


IN    THE    HOUSE   OF    HER    FRIENDS    283 

Katherine  could  hardly  keep  from  smiling  at  the 
very  simplicity  of  his  appeal. 

"  How  can  I  help  you,  dear  boy  ?  "  she  asked,  almost 
amused. 

"  You  have  so  much  influence  over  her.  I  am  sure 
if  you  talked  to  her  you  could  make  her  see  it  a  little 
differently.  You  might  persuade  her  to  give  me  an- 
other chance." 

Katherine  was  sitting  in  Richard's  low  chair,  her 
elbow  on  the  back,  her  head  leaning  back  against  her 
hand. 

"  Dear  Stephen,  is  that  the  way  you  want  to  win 
a  woman  ?  "  she  said  almost  reproachfully.  "  I  thought 
you  had  better  stuff  in  you." 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  do  then  ?  "  he  said,  moving  for- 
ward to  the  edge  of  the  sofa  that  he  might  be  as  near 
as  possible,  his  head  hung  down,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  while  his  fingers  reached  for  and  obtained  a  fold 
of  her  dress,  which  he  held  through  the  conversation 
as  if  he  found  comfort  in  that  small  contact. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  care  so  much  for  her  that  you 
won't  get  over  it  after  a  little  while,  when  you  don't  see 
her  any  longer  ?  Remember,  she  is  not  the  first  person 
you  have  thought  you  were  in  love  with." 

"  She  is  the  first  person  I  ever  really  was  in  love 
with — the  first  person  I  ever  wanted  to  marry — and  the 
last.  If  I  don't  get  Sylvia  I  will  never  marry  any 
one  else."  Then,  seeing  her  smile  not  quite  concealed : 
"  There  have  been  men  who  have  only  loved  one  woman 
in  their  lives." 

"  A  few,  perhaps,"  she  replied  politely. 


284  IN    THE   HOUSE 

"  You  have  no  reason  for  thinking  I  may  be  one 
of  them,"  he  concluded  triumphantly.  But  his  voice 
dropped  quickly  to  despair  again.  "  I  can't  give  her 
up.  It  would  break  my  heart  never  to  see  her  again. 
And  you  are  going  to  take  her  away,  and  she  will  forget 
all  about  me.  I  know  I  could  make  her  love  me  if  I 
had  another  chance." 

"  Dear  Stephen,  you  still  have  as  much  chance  as 
other  men,"  said  Katherine  gently.  "  She  is  very 
young,  and  very  cold.  She  is  not  likely  to  care  for  any 
one  for  some  time.  If  you  are  willing  to  wait,  if  you 
still  have  the  same  mind  when  you  are  both  a  little 
older,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  try  again 
with  more  success." 

"  She's  so  pretty ;  no  one  else  can  help  falling  in 
love  with  her  as  soon  as  they  see  her.  Some  one  will 
be  sure  to  cut  me  out." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  which  he  broke. 

"  Say  they  won't.  Say  you  won't  let  them.  Say 
I  may  come  this  summer  and  see  you  if  I  go  to  Europe." 

He  hitched  himself  forward  on  the  sofa  till  his  head 
nearly  lay  against  her  arm. 

But  she  sent  him  back  to  his  place  with  friendly 
firmness.  He  obeyed,  half  laughing,  then  grew  serious, 
more  deeply,  gravely  serious  than  he  had  ever  been 
before. 

"  I  know  I  behave  like  a  goose,"  he  began  in  quite 
a  different  tone.  "  I  am  always  making  a  fool  of  my- 
self, only  fit  to  be  laughed  at.  But  now  I  mean  what 
I  say.  I  am  not  worthy  of  her.  I  am  glad  she  turned 
me  down.  But  I  shall  be — I  shall  make  myself  so,  and 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  285 

I'll  never  give  her  up,  never,  not  even  if  she  marries 
another  man.  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  care  for 
anything  before.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  there  was 
something  inside  me  coiled  up  like  a  spring.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  it  is  too  strong  to  be  beaten." 

Katherine  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  respect  as 
she  watched  this  new  initiation  of  his  natural,  petted, 
clamorous  inclination  into  masculine  persistency,  and 
she  fitted  her  manner  at  once  to  his  new  dignity. 

He  stayed  some  time  longer,  for  Stephen  was  not 
one  of  those  persons  satisfied  with  the  first  saying  of 
a  thing.  But  he  went  at  last,  having  obtained  certain 
promises  and  concessions.  His  voice  broke  as  he  said 
good  by. 

"  You  are  the  best,  the  kindest,  the  dearest — and 
I  a  brute,  a  pig.  I'd  like  to  kick  myself  for  the  way 
I  have  behaved  to  you." 

But  Katherine  checked  him  almost  sharply.  "  I 
thought  we  had  decided,  Stephen,  that  you  have  not 
behaved  so  very  badly."  He  stood  silent,  realizing 
half  shyly  that  there  are  some  things  for  which  one 
must  never  ask  forgiveness.  Then  very  humbly  he 
kissed  her  hand  as  he  went  away,  not  ceremoniously, 
but  as  if  it  was  the  only  way  he  knew  by  which  he  could 
confess  his  deep  affection  and  contrition. 


XXVIII 

SYLVIA'S  reserves  with  Stephen's  secret  had  not 
been  entirely  voluntary.  For  a  little  while,  in- 
deed, shaken,  almost  frightened  by  the  seriousness  of 
their  interview,  which  had  left  her  with  a  vague,  child- 
ish feeling  of  guilt  and  fear  of  blame,  she  had  wished 
to  be  silent,  and  when  she  was  ready  to  turn  to  her 
mother,  that  very  day,  Katherine  could  not  listen  to 
her,  for  that  very  day,  in  strange  conclusion  to  its  many 
incidents,  her  grandfather  died.  Since  then  the  greater 
had  swallowed  up  the  less — not  for  her,  however.  Per- 
sonally she  had  little  sense  of  loss  in  her  grandfather's 
death,  and  for  that  very  reason  the  weariness,  the 
tedium,  the  inaction  of  mourning  shut  her  in  more 
painfully  to  her  own  perplexities.  As  time  passed  she 
found  herself  growing  gradually  starved  with  longing 
to  speak,  to  hear  counsel,  to  confide  her  own  growing 
unhappiness  to  the  person  who  had  never  before  been 
so  inattentive  to  the  least  little  crisis  of  her  life. 

But  Katherine  sat  all  day  apparently  unconscious 
of  her  need,  writing  at  her  little  table,  or  she  was  clos- 
eted for  hours  with  people  on  business,  and  very  soon 
Sylvia's  unknown,  black  clothed  relations  began  to  fill 
the  house,  taking  Katherine's  place  at  table,  encroach- 
ing upon  her  time  at  meals  or  in  the  evening. 

"  My  dear  Katherine,"  said  John  somewhat  pom- 
286 


IN   THE   HOUSE  OF   HER   FRIENDS     287 

pously  on  the  first  evening  of  his  arrival,  "  can  you 
spare  me  some  time  after  tea?  You  know  more  than 
any  one  else  about  my  father's  papers.  There  are  some 
things  I  must  consult  you  about  before  I  see  his  law- 
yer to-morrow." 

Her  sisters-in-law  broke  out  in  chorus  against  him. 

"  Don't  let  him  tire  you,  Kitty.  You  look  perfectly 
exhausted  already.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
be  worried  with  all  this  business  in  addition  to  every- 
thing else." 

But  she  put  aside  their  objections. 

"  I  am  not  tired  at  all.  Let  us  go  up  into  my 
sitting  room,  John." 

Sylvia,  used  to  the  restraints  of  demonstration 
Katherine  usually  imposed  on  those  about  her,  never 
got  over  her  surprise  at  the  docility  with  which  she 
now  submitted  to  causeless  embraces. 

"  Good-night,  you  dear  child,"  they  all  exclaimed, 
with  kisses,  as  they  saw  her  go  from  among  them. 

Then  by  common  consent  avoiding  the  parlor  as 
too  near  the  closed  door  of  the  Dean's  study,  they  all 
drifted  off  to  their  own  rooms. 

Tom  had  already  slipped  away  as  soon  as  he  could, 
after  tea,  followed  by  Sylvia's  regretful  eyes.  He  was 
still  permitted  to  go  out  and  mingle  with  the  world 
and  shake  off  for  a  moment,  at  least,  the  incubus  that 
vicarious  grief  was  imposing  on  them  both.  "  But 
everything  is  made  easier  for  boys,"  said  Sylvia  to 
herself  bitterly. 

Her  Aunt  Christine,  the  oldest  of  the  family,  car- 
ried her  away  with  her  into  her  own  room.  She  was 


288  IN   THE   HOUSE 

the  widow  of  a  Western  bishop,  a  tall,  slender,  fair 
woman  with  yellow  hair  not  yet  gray,  and  only  partly 
covered  by  the  little  triangular  piece  of  muslin  which 
she  wore  as  a  widow's  cap.  They  sat  a  long  time  to- 
gether in  the  dark  because  it  was  cooler  without  a 
lamp.  Sylvia  could  see  her  aunt's  figure  dimly  evident 
through  the  obscurity,  in  her  chair  by  the  window,  and 
listened  intermittently  to  the  soft  murmur  of  her  voice, 
which  came  to  her  dimly,  half  escaping  through  the 
window  beside  her,  penetrated  by  the  rhythmic  creak- 
ing of  her  feather  fan  and  the  noise  a  great  brown 
beetle  was  making  round  the  light  in  the  hall.  She  was 
telling  of  Sylvia's  father. 

"  Dear  child,  you  make  my  heart  ache,  you  remind 
me  so  of  him,  far  more  than  your  brother.  Tom  was 
the  youngest  of  us  all,  and  my  mother  was  so  glad  it 
was  a  boy,  that  he  could  have  the  family  name.  You 
know  there  had  been  a  Thomas — the  eldest — who  died 
of  scarlet-fever,  and  we  none  of  us  could  make  enough 
of  the  last  baby.  He  would  have  been  spoiled  among  us 
if  he  hadn't  had  such  a  lovely  nature.  As  it  was,  the 
petting  he  got  only  gave  more  confidence  to  his  charm- 
ing, merry  ways.  I  can  never  forget  the  peculiar  crash 
he  used  to  give  the  front  door  when  he  came  home, 
even  from  the  shortest  absences,  and  his  gay  voice 
sounding  through  the  house  from  the  bottom  of  the 
stair.  He  always  took  that  way  of  finding  where  we 
were  before  he  went  in  search  of  us,  always  so  eager 
to  tell  his  adventures,  so  sure  of  our  interest.  Your 
mother  never  quite  got  used  to  his  almost  boyishly 
demonstrative  manner.  We  used  to  laugh  at  her  for 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  289 

being  so  shy  with  him  before  us  all.  His  death  nearly 
broke  my  heart.  None  of  the  others  could  take  the 
same  place  with  me. 

"  Your  Uncle  John  is,  of  course,  a  man  of  parts. 
He  was  always  more  distinguished  looking  than  Tom, 
more  generally  agreeable,  one  might  say.  He  is  still 
a  very  handsome  man,  though  it  is  a  pity  he  is  grow- 
ing so  bald.  But  his  wife  spoils  him.  He  has  become 
very  tiresome  and  long  winded.  It  is  not  good  for  the 
men  of  our  family  to  be  too  much  given  way  to.  They 
are  better  for  being  taken  down,  their  vanity  kept  in 
check.  It  would  have  been  far  better  for  John  if  he 
had  stayed  in  the  East  and  married  dear  Ethel  Porter, 
as  we  all  wished." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  she  who  wouldn't  marry 
him,"  said  Sylvia  a  little  shyly. 

"  Hm,"  said  her  Aunt  Christine.  "  Poor  Ethel  has 
her  weaknesses,  and  one  of  them  is  a  great  deal  of 
silly,  stubborn  pride,  which  no  doubt  was  rather  an 
obstacle  at  one  time;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  she 
was  deeply  attached  to  him,  and  if  he  had  had  a  little 
more  pertinacity — her  obstinacy  hurt  his  vanity,  and 
that  was  a  thing  he  could  never  forgive." 

Her  mother  and  uncle  were  still  talking  in  Kath- 
erine's  sitting  room  when  Sylvia  went  by  on  her  way 
to  bed.  She  stopped  a  moment  at  the  door  and  looked 
in  upon  them.  Katherine  was  sitting  in  a  characteris- 
tic attitude,  one  elbow  resting  on  her  desk  front,  her 
head  tilted  back  and  sideways  against  her  hand,  the 
other  hand  stretched  out  and  resting  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair.  The  light  of  the  lamp  behind  her  outlined  one 


290  IN   THE   HOUSE 

cheek  and  part  of  her  profile,  and  made  a  dim  bright- 
ness of  her  hair.  John's  face  showed  more  directly  in 
the  circle  of  illumination,  high  colored  and  handsome, 
with  its  fine,  blue  eyes  and  well-arched  brows,  and 
brown  hair  running  back  from  the  temples.  He  was 
talking  earnestly  in  the  fine,  rolling  voice  which  was 
so  like  his  father's. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Sylvia  rather  drearily,  and 
made  them  both  look  up. 

Her  uncle  interrupted  himself  to  answer  with  forced 
amiability,  "  Good  night,  my  dear,"  evidently  impatient 
to  have  her  gone  again ;  but  Katherine  held  her  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Are  you  going  so  soon?  Isn't  it  still  very 
early?" 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  answered  Sylvia  a  little 
shamefacedly. 

"  The  heat,  I  suppose,"  said  her  uncle.  "  A  good 
night's  rest  will  cure  it.  Then  you  would  have  me 
understand,  my  dear  Katherine — "  He  returned  to  his 
subject,  drawing  his  sister-in-law  with  him. 

And  Sylvia  went  away  slowly  to  her  own  room; 
but  she  couldn't  sleep.  After  what  seemed  to  her  a 
long  time  she  heard  Katherine  come  into  the  next  room, 
which  was  her  bedroom,  and  close  the  door  between 
them.  Sylvia  listened  in  breathless  suspense,  listened 
and  waited,  hoping  against  hope  that  when  her  mother 
was  ready  for  bed  the  door  would  be  opened  again, 
and  that  Katherine,  finding  her  now  awake,  as  often 
before  through  her  excitable  little  girlhood,  would 
come  in  and  talk  to  her  and  find  the  reason  of  her 


OF   HER   FRIENDS  291 

sleeplessness,  and  bring  her  comfort  by  the  mere  con- 
tact of  soft  hands  upon  her  burning  temples. 

At  last  the  fine  thread  of  light  filtering  under  the 
sill  went  out  suddenly ;  the  lamp  had  been  extinguished 
on  the  other  side,  but  there  was  no  corresponding  move- 
ment toward  the  door.  On  the  contrary,  all  remained 
dark  and  still.  She  flung  herself  back  on  her  pillows 
in  a  passion  of  stifled  weeping. 

Then  the  door  opened  at  last.  She  heard  her 
mother  speak  to  her. 

"  Sylvia,  are  you  awake?  " 

She  gave  a  gasping  assent. 

"Are  you  crying,  my  dearest?"  said  Katherine 
then,  in  sudden  anxiety.  In  another  moment  she  was 
close  beside  her,  leaning  toward  her  in  the  darkness. 
"  Jell  me  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  My  head  aches,"  said  Sylvia  in  stifled  tones. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Why  didn't  you  call 
me?" 

"  The  door  was  shut,"  said  Sylvia  with  a  great  sob. 
"  I  thought  you  couldn't  hear." 

"  Let  me  get  something  to  help  the  pain." 

But  Sylvia  caught  her  hand  and  held  her  fast. 
"  Oh,  no,  don't  go.  I  only  want  you."  She  put  up 
her  arms  and  drew  herself  back  into  her  old,  childish 
attitude,  her  head  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  her  lips 
pressed  against  the  sweet,  white  curves  of  her  throat. 

"Was  it  the  pain  that  made  you  cry?"  asked 
Katherine  with  infinite  tenderness. 

"  No,  no.  It  was  because  I  was  so  unhappy.  I 
wanted  you  so  much,  and  there  was  always  somebody 


292  IN    THE   HOUSE 

else,  and  I  don't  see  how  it  will  ever  be  different.  When 
we  go  away  there  will  be  Aunt  Ruth  and  a  lot  of  people 
you  care  for.  We  shall  never  be  together,  just  you 
and  I,  again." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,  many,  many  times  together,  just 
you  and  I." 

Sylvia  sighed.  "  It  will  never  be  the  same  again," 
she  whispered. 

"  Why  not  ?  Are  you  sorry  to  go  away  from 
here?" 

"  Oh,  no !  oh,  no !  It  is  worse  here  than  anywhere 
else.  You  won't  let  me  tell  you,"  said  Sylvia  under 
her  breath. 

She  was  so  near,  her  head  lay  so  close  to  her  moth- 
er's heart,  that  she  could  feel  the  thrill  and  shiver  of 
half  involuntary  withdrawal,  and  caught  at  her  with 
a  sort  of  desperation. 

"  O  mamma,  don't  go  away !  Don't  be  angry.  I 
won't — I  won't  say  anything.  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
about  anything  you  would  rather  not." 

"  Poor  baby,"  said  her  mother,  almost  laughing, 
"  I'm  not  angry.  I'm  not  going  away.  See,  I  am  close 
here,  holding  you  fast.  Don't  be  afraid  to  talk  to  me 
of  anything  you  want,  if  it  will  make  you  happier." 

But  the  graciousness  of  her  tone  failed  her  before 
the  end,  and  Sylvia,  from  her  soft  place,  could  feel  the 
barriers  lying  like  iron  between  them.  She  moved  a 
little  restlessly  in  the  silence  that  followed,  then  with 
childish  instinct  flung  herself  against  the  weak  place 
in  her  mother's  fortifications. 

"  I  was  so  wretched,"  she  said  at  last,  very  low. 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  293 

"  But  why,  Sylvia  ?  "  asked  Katherine  somewhat 
coldly.  "  I  have  often  wanted  to  ask  you.  There  is 
nothing  to  make  you  wretched  now." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  Sylvia  innocently.  "  Why 
not,  when  it  is  you  and  the  way  you  feel  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  Katherine  faintly. 

"  Yes ;  I  can't  bear  to  think  you  are  unhappy." 

Katherine  drew  a  sigh  of  desperate  patience  before 
she  answered  slowly :  "  I  am  not  so  very  unhappy,  dear ; 
not  at  all  so  that  it  leaves  nothing  else.  When  you 
grow  older  you  will  learn  how  quickly  the  little  joys 
of  life  reassert  themselves.  You  must  never  think  of 
me  as  perfectly  miserable." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Sylvia  wistfully.  Then  with  a  sudden 
movement  to  draw  herself  away  from  her  mother's 
arms,  she  added  with  passionate  bitterness :  "  After  all, 
I  suppose  the  real  thing  that  makes  me  wretched  is 
knowing  that  you  don't  need  me  or  care  for  me  very 
much,  and  nothing  can  cure  that." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sylvia,"  said  her  mother 
sternly. 

She  hid  her  face. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  you  will  understand,"  she 
said,  hesitating;  "  I  can't  make  you.  It  is  not  the  rea- 
son you  think — at  least,  that  only  showed  me  what  had 
been  all  the  time,  only  I  didn't  know  it.  I  don't  mean 
that  I  minded  your  caring  for — "  Sylvia  hesitated, 
and  then  hurried,  stammering,  on  through  Katherine's 
dead  silence — "  for  somebody  else.  But,  you  see,  all 
the  time  I  didn't  know  I  thought  I  was  so  close  to  you, 
and  as  soon  as  I  found  out  and  might  have  comforted 


294  IN   THE   HOUSE 

you — you  put  me  far  away  out  in  the  cold  with  all  the 
others.  If  you  had  cared  for  me  you  would  have 
wanted  me  a  little,  wouldn't  you  ?  "  She  stopped,  al- 
most frightened  at  the  effect  of  her  words  on  her 
mother's  intrenched  composure. 

"  Not  care,  not  want  you  ?  "  cried  Katherine  breath- 
lessly. The  shock  of  her  surprise  betrayed  her  sud- 
denly into  passionate  sobbing. 

"  Please  don't,  mamma,"  said  Sylvia  much  dis- 
tressed. "  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  if  I  had  thought 
you  would  mind  so  much." 

"  But  why  did  you  think  that  ?  How  could  you 
think  that  ?  "  Katherine  reiterated,  still  struggling  with 
her  sobs.  "  It  is  unjust,  unkind,  I — I  didn't  deserve 
that." 

"  Oh,  dear  mamma !  I  never  thought  you  didn't 
care  for  me  really,  as  your  child.  It  was  something 
more  I  meant,  like  friends,  you  know.  I  can't  explain 
and  it  doesn't  matter,"  she  added  hastily,  as  she  felt 
Katherine  catch  her  breath  again.  "  I  am  quite  content 
to  be  your  child  when  you  are  good  to  me,  as  you 
are  now." 

"  Good  to  you !  "  echoed  Katherine  very  low,  still 
holding  Sylvia  close  in  her  arms.  "  My  little  friend," 
she  added  after  a  moment  in  a  sort  of  passionate  hu- 
mility :  "  It  was  not  you  who  were  silly,  but  I  who 
was  stupid  and  blind  and  cruel.  You  must  forgive  me, 
and  I  will  try  to  be  more  worthy  of  your  friendship 
in  future,  but  you  will  have  to  be  patient  with  me, 
for,  as  you  come  to  know  me  better,  you  will  find  me 
a  very  poor  thing  in  almost  all  relations." 


OF    HER    FRIENDS  295 

Sylvia  clung  to  her  desperately.  "  Please  don't. 
Please  don't  say  horrid  things  about  yourself.  If  being 
friends  means  that,  I'd  rather  not.  I  want  you  just 
to  be  perfect,  as  you  always  were.  I'll  try  to  be  good, 
I'll  try  to  be  a  comfort  to  you." 

"  Don't  be  too  good  to  me,  dear,"  said  Katherine 
a  little  faintly.  "  Don't  learn  to  spare  me  too  quickly. 
I  am  afraid  I  like  the  other  way  best.  And  now,"  with 
a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "  suppose  we  don't  talk  about 
me  any  more  just  now.  Do  you  know  when  I  first 
came  in  I  had  an  idea  that  you  were  going  to  tell  me 
about  something  quite  different.  Stephen  came  to  see 
me  this  afternoon  while  you  were  in  the  garden  with 
Marjorie." 

"  Oh,  did  he,  and  did  he  tell  you  ?  Do  you  think 
I  was  very  heartless,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Heartless,  dear!    Weren't  you  kind  to  him?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  At  first  I  laughed  a  little  because  I 
thought  he  was  half  in  fun.  But  it  was  horrid  as  soon 
as  I  saw  he  really  cared.  He  minded,  dear  mamma — 
he  cried — he  minded  so  much,"  said  Sylvia  with  a  sort 
of  awe. 

"  And  so  you  said  no,  Sylvia,"  said  her  mother 
gravely.  "  Why  did  you  say  no  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because  I  don't  care  for  him  now,"  said 
Sylvia  simply.  "  It  is  funny,  because  at  first,  a 
long  time  ago,  I  cared  for  him  a  great  deal.  He 
made  that  queer  little  feeling  come  in  my  heart 
when  I  thought  I  was  going  to  see  him.  You  know 
that  feeling!  It  comes  when  you  like  a  person  very 
much." 


296  IN    THE    HOUSE 

But  Katherine  sat  silent,  with  her  cheek  on  Sylvia's 
hair,  waiting  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  And  I  felt  dreadfully  once,  for  quite  a  while, 
when  some  one  said  he  was  in  love  with  that  Miss 
Winston  in  Statesburg.  And  though  it  hasn't  been 
so  exciting  since  I  got  to  know  him  so  well  and  saw 
him  all  the  time,  still  I  did  think  I  cared  for  him  very 
much,  and  I  often  used  to  imagine  what  fun  it  would 
be  when  we  were  engaged." 

"  You  did,  Sylvia,  and  you  never  told  me !  "  said 
her  mother  in  amazement. 

"  O  mamma,  one  can't  tell  those  things.  They 
would  sound  ridiculous.  And  then  I  thought  it  would 
be  such  fun  to  be  married  very  soon.  You  see  I  al- 
ways wanted  to  be  as  much  like  you  as  possible." 

"  You  wanted  to  be  like  me ! "  echoed  Katherine 
with  a  sort  of  pathetic  wonder. 

"  Yes.  It  was  silly  of  me,  for  I  know  I  could 
never  be  half  so  beloved." 

Katherine  drew  her  closer  with  a  little  cry  of  des- 
perate amusement. 

"  Then  what  made  you  change  your  mind  so  that 
you  said  no  when  the  time  came  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know !  "  said  Sylvia  a  little  restlessly. 
"  I  don't  think  I  really  care  for  any  one — but  you,  and 
yet  I  am  not  sure.  I  wish  he  hadn't  been  so  very 
unhappy!  When  he — when  he  cried,  I  felt  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it  now.  Do  you  think 
he  will  ever  get  over  it  ?  " 

"Do  you  want  him  to  get  over  it?"  asked  her 
mother. 


OF   HER    FRIENDS  297 

Sylvia  hesitated.  "  I  suppose  he  will,"  she  said 
reluctantly.  "  People  do  get  over  things,  don't  they—- 
almost everything,  if  they  only  go  on  living  long 
enough  ?  " 

"  Not  always,"  said  Katherine  under  her  breath, 
while  Sylvia  continued  in  a  tone  of  forced  cheerful- 
ness :  "  Yes,  I  can't  imagine  Stephen  unhappy  very 
long." 

"  Do  you  want  him  to  come  and  see  you  this  sum- 
mer if  he  goes  abroad  and  Aunt  Ruth  asks  him  ?  " 

"  Shan't  I  see  him  before?  "  said  Sylvia  in  innocent 
dismay. 

Her  mother  laughed  a  little.  "  I  thought  you  had 
sent  him  away." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia  doubtfully,  adding  after  a  mo- 
ment, "  if  he  only  were  a  little  different.  If  only  peo- 
ple didn't  laugh  at  him,  and  call  him  *  poor  Stephen,' 
and  say  he  has  a  good  heart.  I  don't  want  only  a  good 
heart — at  my  age,  mamma." 

Katherine  gave  a  little  sigh  of  laughter.  "  Perhaps 
some  day  he  will  have  more,  perhaps  you  will  want 
less.  In  the  mean  time  we  won't  send  him  quite  away, 
shall  we,  dear?  We  will  ask  him  to  come  and  say 
good-by  before  we  go." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia  with  a  long  sigh.  Then  with 
her  arms  close  about  her  mother's  neck,  her  cheek 
pressed  against  her  shoulder :  "  But  I  don't  believe  I 
shall  ever  love  any  other  person  in  the  world  quite  as 
much  as  I  do  you." 

Katherine  sat  a  long  time  in  the  darkness  even  after 
Sylvia  had  ceased  to  talk,  even  after  her  soft,  regular 


298  IN   THE   HOUSE 

breathing  as  she  lay  against  her  mother's  shoulder  told 
that  she  had  fallen  asleep.  At  last  she  disengaged  her- 
self, letting  her  little  daughter  sink  softly  back  among 
the  pillows.  Even  then  Sylvia  only  half  awoke  to  say 
good  night  in  sleepy  tones,  with  half  opening  eyes. 

Katherine  returned  to  her  own  room,  though  not 
just  yet  to  sleep,  but  went  and  sat  by  the  window,  lean- 
ing her  arms  on  the  cool  stone  sill  and  looking  out 
across  the  soft  darkness  of  grass  on  the  athletic  field 
to  the  gray  building  of  the  engineering  school,  the 
blank  glass  of  whose  shutterless  windows  was  send- 
ing but  dim  reflections  into  the  night.  She  watched, 
as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before  in  hours  of 
sleepless  despair,  the  moon  rising  higher  and  higher 
above  the  squat  library  tower  into  the  airy  zenith,  dark- 
ening the  long  line  of  the  Alban  Hills  which  glimmered 
through  the  arches  of  the  classic  elms.  And  the  past, 
so  often  bitter,  did  not  make  the  thought  less  sad  that 
the  time  was  coming  when  she  would  look  out  on  these 
familiar  precincts  no  more.  Places  one  has  learned  to 
know  through  tears  have  their  own  beauty,  bring  their 
own  nostalgia,  often  more  far  reaching  and  poignant 
than  those  associated  only  with  joy. 

But  as  she  gazed,  at  the  other  end  of  the  campus 
round  the  school  of  engineering  there  emerged  on  the 
whiteness  of  the  Promenade  certain  dark,  batlike  fig- 
ures, to  flutter  awhile  among  the  loops  of  the  elms 
before  they  disappeared  again  among  the  gray  build- 
ings. Their  voices  came  harshly  through  the  night, 
with  greater  distinctness  as  they  approached  the  Dean's 
corner.  Here  they  paused,  turned  and  walked  along 


OF    HER   FRIENDS  299 

the  path  which  led  under  Katherine's  window,  past  the 
long  line  of  the  chapel,  to  the  empty  house  beyond. 
There  they  stood,  darkly  in  the  moonlight,  looking  up 
and  at  each  other  with  pointing,  curious  gestures.  It 
was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brauer,  who  were  walking  to  the 
South  Gate  with  Miss  Mix,  and  the  new  professor  of 
engineering  and  his  wife,  whom  they  had  been  enter- 
taining at  their  evening  meal.  They  had  all  turned  a 
little  from  their  path  in  order  to  show  the  new  mem- 
bers of  the  faculty  the  house  which  had  belonged  to  his 
predecessor  and  was  now  his. 

Katherine  drew  back  softly  and  closed  the  blind, 
shutting  it  all  away,  the  silvering  walls,  the  straight 
enclosures,  the  distance  of  the  Alban  Hills,  and  the 
great  white  moon  riding  high  in  the  June  heaven — 
the  frame  of  her  life,  happy  and  sorrowful,  for  more 
than  nineteen  years.  But  she  could  not  quite  exclude 
the  sound  of  the  voices  as  they  passed  again  beneath 
her  windows,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  their  echoes 
let  her  sleep. 


